


(I'll See You) When I Fall Asleep

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, minor character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smokes and drinks scotch and hates doing both. There was a time before when he wouldn't have touched the stuff. There was a time when he treated his body like a temple and coveted his voice like nothing else. There was a time where he stood in front of hundreds and could talk for three hours - but that was different.</p>
<p>That was a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I'll See You) When I Fall Asleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thediamondskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thediamondskies/gifts).



> NC17 | ex popstar!liam, illness minor character, minor character death, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, blowjobs and sex and sadness, really | 24k? HAHAHAHAH | liam/harry (liam/zayn)
> 
> or the fic that was me begging **[Zee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thediamondskies/pseuds/thediamondskies)** for a prompt and written as a present for finishing her big bang and then I actually finished this when she posted it. Also for **[Erin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsyt31/pseuds/mrsyt31)** because everything is. always. And MASSES of love to both **[Snuffleslove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snuffleslove/pseuds/snuffleslove)** and **[Lumos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lumos/pseuds/lumos)** the great for waving magic wands of beta amazingness over this. Love your guts ;o)

Liam doesn’t know why he’s taken up smoking.

No. That’s a lie.

He knows exactly why he’s taken up smoking and he knows exactly why it’s not good for him and how his body is slowly being poisoned. He knows all the reasons because he’s spouted them all before.

But here he is, not even ten thirty in the morning on a Saturday, of all things, and he’s on his third cig and also the same amount of coffee. It’s stupid that his life has become this—smokes and cigarettes in the morning and smokes and scotch at night before he falls asleep. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s always been so good with his body—six-kilometer run in the morning, fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and fifty pull-ups at the halfway mark, and then back home for a shower and breakfast of yoghurt and museli with juice on the side. Lunch with lots of green and leafy things and something small at night. If he found himself jittery before bed it was laps in the pool until he had to drag himself out with barely enough energy to wash the chlorine from his body before collapsing into bed.

But he hasn’t done any of that in a long while.

No running, no swimming, and definitely nothing that would classify as green and leafy in his diet—well, at least not around here.

“Mr. Payne? He’s ready to see you now.”

x X x

“Jesus, Li,” Niall says, his accent making the few words he says sound even worse—filled with pity and maybe a little like disappointment. 

Liam raises his head from where he’s sat in front of the telly most of the afternoon once he came home. There’s an ashtray filled to overflowing and a bottle of Coke that he sipped at, waiting for the tube, that’s also filled with more than a few floating filters, distended beyond their normal shape. 

“Bad day?” Niall says, pushing the coffee cups that Liam had when he first got in to the side, giving him a place to prop his feet once he sits beside Liam on the sofa.

Liam nods. He can’t really talk about it. Can’t really think about it. He hands Niall the near-empty bottle of cheap scotch he bought when he realised he was out at home and also out of cigarettes. It only occurred to him when he was halfway home that he hadn’t asked for a pack of his cigarettes when he was at the counter. Well, it least it proved that the boy with thick-rimmed glasses who always had his head in a book _did_ pay attention to his customers. 

That was probably worse, Liam having gone there so often that he was a “regular”. He was probably “three packs of Regal and a bottle of scotch man”. Maybe the boy didn’t notice at all.

“That bad?” Niall says, a lot softer, and Liam—he knows that tone. Knows what will come next and the pity and the need to make things better, and he can’t. Niall can’t.

No one can.

He just takes a swig of amber liquid straight from the bottle and passes it to Niall.

Some things he just doesn’t have words for.

x X x

“Vodka tonight?”

And Liam blinks and looks up from where he’s been thumbing through his wallet, wondering if he has enough to cover the second cheapest bottle of alcohol on the shelf. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

“What?” he gets out, near-choking on the words because he hasn’t talked at all today.

Just listened.

The boy nods to the bottle sitting on the counter in front of him and the corner of his cherry-red lips turn up into a sort of smile. Could even be a proper one, but Liam doesn’t know this boy that well. Well enough to know it’s got to be Tuesday because he’s got his Psych text open and he’s wearing that grey hoodie. It looks so worn and lived in, Liam would bet his last ten quid it would be utterly soft on the inside, would feel like you were wrapped up safe and warm with it around your chest. Not that Liam notices these things, either. He just has a good memory sometimes.

“The vodka, not the scotch. Having a party, are we, or finally moved on to the clear liquid part of your diet?”

The boy smiles, a proper one this time laced with the cheekiness Liam manages to pick out in his voice. It’s nice, this smile on this boy. His mouth full of shiny white teeth and the cherry of his lips bleeds out, thins as he smiles so it’s more a blushing pink, like the roses Liam's grandmother grew in her front garden. 

“Bit short,” is what Liam gets out, having to clear his throat to say even two words. There was a time when he stood in front of hundreds and could talk for three hours—but that was different.

That was a long time ago.

The boy wrinkles his nose and sucks the side of his lip in, the flesh turning white under his teeth as he sweeps his fringe to the side. His fingers are long and covered in spots of ink of many colours. For a second Liam wonders exactly what else this boy does—uni texts, rainbow of ink on his skin—some permanent, if the little touches Liam’s seen poking out of his clothes sometimes are anything to go by, that one time he had a camera sitting on the counter and a sheet of proofs. Not that Liam was paying _that_ close attention. He’s always been one for details, and this boy has a lot of them.

“Ahh, well. Look, don’t let my manager know, but the bottles of Bells go on special tomorrow, two for twenty. It's close enough to then he won't ask.” He’s already reaching around the side and scanning the price in before Liam can say a word.

“There,” he grins, packing the bottles away in a plastic bag and taking the vodka from in front of Liam. “Have a good night, mate!”

Liam blinks and stares a little, mouth open. 

“This is usually the part where you say thanks or something,” the boy says, his cheeks pinking up. Liam is still staring. “Or not. Oh shit, did you actually want the vodka? I can change it back.”

“No,” Liam says as the boy reaches out to grab at the bag. Liam stops him, his hand nearly wraps around the boy’s wrist and the boy’s bones under his skin shift with how hard Liam’s holding him. Liam shakes himself, lets go a bit. It’s been a while since he touched someone like this. Touched anyone really. “It’s fine. Thank you, really.”

The boy’s smile returns and it hits Liam somewhere in his chest, how lovely this boy’s smile is and how it reaches his eyes, all clear and bright. Liam wonders if he can smile like that again.

Then he remembers that life isn’t about smiling boy’s and pretty eyes and qualities that make Liam believe in good things once more.

He lets go of the boy’s wrist and grabs the bag and is out the door into the cool night air, but not before hearing the boy say, “You’re welcome.”

x X x

“Mr. Payne, I think it’s time we discussed—”

“No. No, it’s not, really it’s not.”

“But Mr. Payne—”

“Can you stop? I’m not Mr. Payne, all right? I’m Liam, his son, and—”

“Liam, are you sure there’s not any—”

“No, there’s just me.”

x X x

When he gets in it’s late and he’s expecting the house to be dark, empty, and as hollow as his insides feel. It’s the bright lights and the _sound_ that make him wonder if he’s wandered onto the wrong allotment and the third floor up, seventh along, isn’t actually the flat he shares with Niall.

And it’s not Niall who’s got the stereo blaring. A bunch of people call Liam’s name as he comes up the stairs, brushing past couples here and there in varying degrees of drunken stupor. It’s not Niall who has somehow got a bloody disco ball hanging from the roof and spinning wild blinking shadows across the small living room. It’s not Niall’s stereo that’s blaring pop and eighties hits, either.

Niall’s gone home to Mullingar for a week or two—he can’t look after Liam forever even if he told Liam he doesn’t need to go back for his brother’s thirtieth. His brother understands. He _gets it_.

Liam doesn’t want anyone to “get it.” He doesn’t want anyone’s help at all. He had to push Niall out the door two days ago and even spent money he didn’t have on a plane fare just to make sure his best friend actually left the country.

Mrs. Horan put the cost into his account and that just made Liam feel even worse.

Which is why the first thing out of his mouth when he pushes into the crowd and finally gets to the kitchen and spots the reason for his flat becoming a bar is:

“What the bloody fuck, Louis?”

Because of _course_ it’s Louis organising something like this.

He’s drunk and his hair, which must have been up in a quiff earlier in the night, has fallen into a sweaty tangled mess that the boy wrapped around Louis’ waist has his hand tangled in. He smiles all big and wide and ignorant of Liam’s words with how he slips out of this boy’s arms and collapses in a mess of limbs around Liam. 

“Liam!” Louis shouts, making Liam’s name last three times as long as it should. “You made it!”

Liam grabs Louis by the shoulders and shoves him off hard. Louis spins into someone behind him and a look of confusion comes over his face that only makes Liam angrier.

“Li?”

But Liam’s not in the mood for placating Louis, as generally shitty as he feels for pushing Louis a little too hard. He’s just—it’s been a long, horrid day, and to come home to this? 

“Is this what you consider a ‘good idea’, Louis?” Liam says, stepping forward to shove at Louis again. The boy who was holding Louis before is off the counter now, one hand around Louis’ wrist and the other held up toward Liam in supplication.

“Hey, man.” 

Liam shoves his hand out of the way and pushes at Louis’ shoulders. He’s got Louis up against the fridge within seconds and everything about how _angry_ he feels about Louis doing this to _his_ home blocks everything else out.

Especially Louis’ wince when Liam grips his skin too hard.

“What made you possibly think this could be a good idea, Louis? You’re such a stupid fuck!”

Louis’ face changes with each of those last words. Liam makes them count by slamming Louis so hard that magnets holding up the overdue electricity bill and one for the phone that’s about to be cut off fall to the floor. 

“Liam,” Louis says softly, quietly, and there’s a hitch in his voice. “You’re hurting me.”

Liam closes his eyes and takes a step back, forces his fingers to unbend and release until he’s dropped his hands to his sides and they’re back in tight fists again.

“Get out.”

“Liam—”

Liam shakes his head and forces a breath in and out of his lungs. It’s all too tight. Too bright. Too loud. Too much.

“I said, get out!” Liam says more loudly, and someone’s turned the music off or down so his words are this _noise_ in the night.

There’s movement then, bottles clinking and bodies shuffling, voices whispering, but it sounds like they’re leaving. Liam’s nostrils flare wide with each breath and he’s near shaking, can feel his fingernails pressing into the soft skin of his hands as he tries to keep calm.

Minutes pass and all the sounds die down to nothing but one.

“It was for you, mate,” Louis says softly, and there’s that pity again. Liam can feel it sticky against his skin. “I thought it might be nice—”

“You didn’t _think_ ,” Liam spits, his tongue laced with the venom of hurt that he can’t be normal and enjoy things like this. Can’t be happy that his friend—one of his very best friends—organised a party like this, worries about Liam’s happiness and _tries_ just for him. “You never think, Lou.”

Liam opens his eyes and Louis is still standing there but there’s not even hurt on his face anymore. There’s just this _sadness_ and Liam hates it. Hates that people feel like this about him, that they all want to “understand” and “be there” and he _hates_ feeling so beholden to everyone.

“Just leave.”

Louis opens his mouth but his wrist is being pulled by that bloke from before so he nods instead and turns, walking back into the main living room.

Liam stomps to the bathroom and turns the tap on hard, feeling his face heat and his eyes prickle with tears unshed and he won’t. Hasn’t done yet. Won’t do. He _won’t._ The water is cool on his skin as he splashes at his face, rubs his hands down his skin and tries to make the tightness in his chest just _stop._ It’s getting harder to breath, though. Much harder to keep it all locked in and locked away from everyone. He feels like he could explode with how hard he’s trying to keep from falling apart. 

Fucking Louis and his fucking party.

Liam catches sight of his face in the mirror. The red spider veins that take up the entirety of the whites of his eyes, the lines that mar his forehead, which no boy his age should have. The way his cheeks are hollow, his skin a shade of yellow that he can’t even put down to the shoddy lighting in here and he just looks—he looks . . . .

His fist meets the mirror in one punch that quickly becomes three and four and ten until the glass is breaking and there’s nothing left but wood to hit. And Liam does, again and again and again until he has to stop, falling to the floor, hand cradled against his chest as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets the pain of his hand equal the one in his heart. When he gets himself under control and his chest doesn't feel like someone has it in a vise grip, he looks down to see how much damage he’s done.

There are slices and cuts that are way more than the few he had hoped for, one on his knuckle so deep that he can see blood just billowing up and up.

If Niall were home he’d stitch him up. One of the bonuses, really, of having a trainee nurse for a best mate/flat mate. But Niall’s in Ireland and Louis has left and that leaves Liam with no one.

No one at all.

He gets up after a moment, wraps his hand with what he hopes is still a mostly clean hand towel, and heads out the door, not bothering with the lock.

The stereo isn’t his to miss if it gets stolen. 

He makes it down to the off-license and picks up the last bottle of Chivas on the shelf, thinking that he deserves the good stuff considering how much pain he’s going to be in when he wakes up in the morning. He’s in the middle of fishing around in his wallet for his keycard when he remembers that the bloody machine ate it early that morning and he was supposed to go to the bank to get cash out later, but—well, later was too late.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he says as sheepishly as he can when he looks up, face pulled into what he hopes is some sort of “pity me, please” look. A look he normally avoids at all costs, but—fuck it, he should probably be at the A&E with the damage he’s done; a little pity is allowed, even if they don’t know how much he deserves what he’s caused (and more). “I lost my keycard this morning and I’m well short of cash. You don’t happen to—” 

“You want to start a tab?” this voice says, and Liam blinks, properly looking up at the boy behind the counter, and feels marginally better because he _knows_ this boy. Tuesday Psych text boy, Thursday rainbow skin, Saturdays sometimes a graphic novel of some sort. 

Liam nods and—“Didn’t think you did that.”

The other boy shrugs, his hair falling over his forehead as he reaches under the desk, pulling out an ancient coffee-or-something–stained book. He flicks through the pages toward the back and writes in the date. “Sometimes. Just for the regulars.”

Fuck. He is a regular, then. 

One of those things Liam never wanted to be—never thought he would be, to be honest. And yet here he is, handing over his license when this lad asks and thanking him profusely as he gets down Liam’s details.

The boy rolls his eyes at Liam’s ongoing gratitude, finally reaching his hand out to Liam’s where it’s sat up on the counter and squeezing lightly. Liam nearly jumps from the buzz it causes up his skin, and—well. That was unexpected.

“All right, then, Liam James Payne. Just make sure you call it even at the end of the month and you’ll be fine.” He smiles and Liam’s heart does _not_ beat a little faster for it. The boy just has a nice smile. A happy smile. One that doesn’t acknowledge how Liam’s world has gone to shit.

“Thank you,” Liam says, looking for the boy’s badge and finding none. He winces and curses in the next breath as he forgets which hand he hurt and tries picking up the bottle with the bleeding one.

“Hey, what’d you do there?” the boy says, tugging at Liam’s wrist as Liam tries to push him off.

“It’s fine. Just a little scratch. Got in a blue with my cat,” and he doesn’t even have a cat, so he can add lying to his many great new attributes.

The boy’s whole face pinches with concern as he unwraps Liams’ hand and gasps at the damage underneath.

“I’d love to know what you call major, then,” he says, and he’s already back ducking behind the counter and telling Liam to keep still, and for some reason Liam does. His hand _hurts_ and this lad is offering to do . . . well, do something, so he stays.

He doesn't stay because the boy’s skin feels warm and soft and just lovely against the little Liam’s own that he connects with. Liam doesn't think about that at all. Only watches as the boy pulls out this bag of stuff and there’s bandages and steri strips and more.

“Are you a doctor in your spare time?” Liam asks as the boy sets to work on spraying antiseptic over Liam’s skin, using cotton wool to clean off the blood where it’s congealed on Liam’s knuckles and fingers. 

“Not yet,” the boy answers, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he slowly pushes together the larger cut, concentration etched upon his face.

“Oh,” Liam says because he could have a dozen other things to ask but that would mean being interested and Liam’s not. He’s got enough on his own plate.

“There,” the boy says with a grin, tying up the last of the white bandage that he’s wrapped around Liam’s hand and wrist. “All done!”

He looks for a minute as if he’s going to drop his lips onto the back of Liam’s hand and kiss it but he doesn’t, just breathes low and close until he surges upright and looks everywhere but at Liam.

Well, Liam assumes he does; he hasn’t been able to look at the boy since he blew softly across his skin to dry the antiseptic spray earlier.

“Thanks for this and—” Liam shakes the bottle in his good hand side to side— “that.”

The boy shrugs again but he’s half hidden by the counter as he puts his bag of tricks away someplace.

“Well, thanks again,” Liam says, feeling his face heat up for the second time tonight, but this is a lot less to do with anger and a lot more to do with . . .

. . . well, things Liam isn’t meant to be letting himself think about.

He rushes out the door as fast as his feet can carry him before the boy can answer and he’s nearly halfway down the street when he hears him.

“Oh, and happy birthday, Liam!”

Liam grins, and for one tiny slice of his night he lets himself accept something lovely and wonderful into his life. 

Because come morning he’ll have an entire flat to clean up, a hand that will hopefully not need a trip to his GP, and two bus trips back to the reason why he can’t have anything nice at all.

x X x

“So I’ve become an alcoholic, I guess?” Liam starts, and he plays with a loose thread on the blanket. He shakes his head a little before continuing softly, “It’s not bad . . . well, not _that_ bad. It’s not like I need a drink to function, like great Uncle George did,” he laughs, and it’s hollow even to his own ears and stops his grin short.

“I won’t do it,” he whispers, not talking about the booze anymore. Just another subject he can’t say aloud because if he did he’d have to recognise it, and Liam can’t. He can’t do that right now. He bends forward so he’s leaning his forehead on his hands and lets his eyes close—just for a minute. He’s tired and he hasn’t slept properly for days and it’s quiet here. Mostly.

“I won’t.”

x X x

He doesn’t go home straight away this particular afternoon but finds himself walking through the park that isn’t safe at night but is mostly all right as the sun sets slowly over the buildings above. He walks and walks and doesn’t really think about where his feet are leading him until he’s treading hard on a familiar staircase and knocking on a door he still has a key for.

It creaks open after a minute and the boy on the other side doesn’t get out more than a mildly surprised, if yawned through, “Liam?” before Liam’s shutting his mouth up by pressing against it with his own.

He kicks at the door with his foot, hears it close with a click before his hands that are already on this boy’s shoulders are tugging him in while walking them down the hall. The boy tastes like cheap weed and even cheaper wine and it’s sour and sweet at the same time—but Liam doesn’t need to focus on that. His fingertips slide down the boy’s chest, gripping at his thin shirt and pushing up and up until he has to break free, lips snapping kisses in between as he pulls the thing off the other boy’s head. Liam avoids his eyes, avoids anything other than shucking his coat and ripping his own shirt off over the back of his head. He’s panting already from how hard they’ve kissed, his hand cupping the back of the other boy’s head, grip tight on the short, dark hair there as he pulls him in close again. These light touches of lip to lip feel like punches to his chest but he doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.

“Fuck,” the other boy says as Liam fits a knee between his thighs and lets their hips rock together, intent obvious in his every move. He’s already half-hard, and every push and shove and feel of the other boy’s ragged nails pressing into his shoulderblades is only making his jeans fit tighter. Liam lets his fingertips trace slowly over skin stretched thin over the boy’s rib cage and fits his thumbs into the hollow under his hipbones. Smooth skin marked by ink that Liam’s felt every slight bump of with tongue and fingertip, and it settles everything that was bouncing around in his chest.

This is a bad idea. Such a bad idea. 

Liam doesn’t stop.

The other boy breaks from their kiss, nipping at Liam’s lip and chin and jaw until he’s breathing against Liam’s ear, too worked up to get a word out. Liam doesn’t want words anyhow. Heard enough of them today. He doesn’t want to think about words anymore.

The other boy has his hands all over Liam’s body, his shoulder, waist, the curls at the nape of his neck, like he can’t stop _touching_ —and for Liam, who hasn’t _let_ anyone touch him in so long, it’s almost too much. He slides his hands around to the barely-there curve of the other’s arse and lifts. They’re near the same height so this shouldn’t be as easy as it is, but the other boy is light, has always been wiry, and Liam lifts him from the floor. The other boy jumps up and wraps his legs around Liam’s waist like he’s some sort of koala in human form. He clings like one, has his claws in Liam’s back and shoulder and the tendons in Liam's neck, and Liam grunts because it hurts but it’s the type of hurt he wants more of.

Needs.

He walks them further into the flat, knocks the coffee table with his shin, but apart from a low “Fuck” and a “Sorry” from the other, no words are said. He’s got them in the bedroom while one hand has snuck between them, tugging at the button of the other boy’s fly while their tongues press and pulse against each other. It’s not pretty, it’s not even nice the way they kiss—like there’s some need to taste every part of each other’s mouth. They fall onto the bed in a mess of limbs and Liam’s not even careful about how he lands, hears the air rush out of the other boy’s lungs but wastes no more than a second before his lips find a taut nipple and he’s biting down like he knows the other boy likes. 

It must be okay. Must be all right. Because the other boy gets his hands between them, gets his jeans undone and then Liam’s, and doesn’t pause for a beat before his fingers wrap around Liam as best he can in the small space he’s created. Liam curls in on himself with a gasp and the other boy arches up, bites at Liam’s lips until they’re kissing again, and it’s all Liam can do to prop himself up and let the other boy take what he wants. 

The boy’s hand is a slow drag up, thumb rubbing over the precome pearled at Liam’s slit and then down again with a squeeze and a fingertip pressed into the vein underneath. His nail catches and Liam squawks but just bites at the other boy’s neck, hard enough to leave a bruise. Liam sucks and licks at the mark as his body lights up, slowly like bubbles in a good pint rising to the the top. He can feel it, this warmth down low in his gut, and Liam should help by pushing his jeans down or something but the other boy is getting there—fingers and toes curling into hard denim and pushing down till it’s at Liam’s knees.

Liam sits up then, one hand on the other boy’s chest feeling how hard his heart is racing, and holds him down as he wriggles out of his jeans and pants the rest of the way. He doesn’t worry about his socks—can’t even remember stepping out of his trainers. Liam takes a second to take in the other boy: eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and hair a tangled dark mess against soft grey sheets that were probably white once. His lips are red, red and swollen, and Liam’s sense of pride that he did that dies in a second because this is _such_ a bad idea. 

The other boy’s tongue flicks out over his bruised skin, fingertips reach up and meet Liam’s thigh and grip as hard as he can, and Liam knows that there’ll be marks there later. Four little indents on his skin to remind Liam of what he’s done. He rids himself of the thought by bending in close, mouth open with a wet slide of his tongue over skin that could be toned but is more flat from muscles gone unused. His teeth find hipbones that jut out far too sharply and he mars them with nips and sucks a bruise into the hollow purely because he knows it’ll drive the other boy wild. It does; the other boy’s hips fly up and Liam gets an arm over the boy’s waist to hold him down before sucking over the obvious wet patch of the other boy’s navy briefs. The cotton tastes stale under his tongue but the scent of boy and bitter taste of precome fade it into the background the more he lets his mouth take the shape of the boy’s cock underneath. He sucks and blows and traces the outline of the boy’s hard cock down between his legs and up again until he gets his fingers into the waistband and pulls down. The other boy shifts his legs up and over Liam’s ducked head, tugging his jeans and briefs off fast. 

He obviously wants it as much as Liam does.

Liam sinks down between the boy’s legs, pushes at his thighs until the other boy shifts up, feet planted on the bed. The other boy’s cock is flushed and hard against his belly, the head shiny from precome and Liam’s spit, and Liam’s own cock kicks from the sight of it. He resists touching himself, not now when all Liam wants is to get this boy prepped and to fuck until his brain thinks of nothing else but what he’s doing and how it feels and nothing else. Nothing at all.

Liam grips the other boy’s cock at the base with a loose circle of his fingers, tilts his cock up until he can bob down with ease, swallowing until his lips meet his fist. It’s everything he remembers, the taste, the smell, the heavy _weight_ on his tongue. And he likes this. Is good at this—as far as he remembers—and when the boy’s fingertips push at Liam’s fringe, slide back so his nails scrape against Liam’s scalp, he shivers. This was what he wanted. This is what he needed. 

His fist follows his mouth back up, pulling the other boy’s foreskin back so Liam can tongue at the sensitive head, slide the tip into the slit, and then follow the taste back down to the base and back up again. He does this a few more times, feels how hard the other boy has become just from his mouth alone, and pulls off, saliva and precome stretching from the rubbery feel of his lips to the tip of the other boy’s dick. Liam watches the other boy’s chest rise and fall in time with the pulse that Liam felt beating against his tongue. He looks—he looks strung out and wanting. His chest is all flushed, a dark shade of pink over olive skin, and one arm is thrown over his eyes, the other lying on the bed where it slipped out of Liam’s hair earlier. 

He shifts his arm and looks up at Liam, pupils blown right out, and his cheekbones are still the prettiest thing Liam’s ever seen. His lips quirk and it looks like he might say something and Liam can’t have that. Not now, not with what this is. Not with what it can’t be. So he leans down close, bites at the soft inner flesh of the boy’s thigh. Liam sucks two fingers of his free hand into his mouth, slicks them up with spit while he strokes the boy’s cock in a loose fist. The boy is muttering a stream of Liam’s name, and a short while ago this would have worked Liam up more. Made his heart beat fast and made Liam think things like happiness and love were real. Were enough. But not now.

Liam takes his wet fingers and with the sound of moans and short breaths above him he traces the tight furl of the other boy’s entrance. He slides his finger in, just a little, then a little more when a reassuring sound comes from further up the bed. There are fingertips brushing at his forehead again and Liam presses his finger in deeper still. He starts shifting it in and out then, and spits on the skin above his fingers, the slick easing his fingers’ way a little. When Liam’s hair is gripped a little harder he knows the other boy is ready for more. He traces a second finger over the tight pink skin that holds his finger firmly; the boy is so tight, spit isn’t going to be enough.

“Have you got something?” he asks, voice shot from how deep he took the other boy before. They’re the first words he’s spoken since coming in. The hand in Liam’s hair disappears. There’s banging around and what sounds like a glass clattering to the floor before a tube of lube is knocked against his forehead as well as four condoms in a long row. Liam would laugh but he’s so focused on what he’s doing, what he wants, that he just grabs at the tube. He squeezes out a fat dollop onto his fingers and with a bare moment to spread it around, he’s sliding his second finger in. Liam ignores the short gasp from above, just presses in and out and curls his fingers enough that the sharp sounds from above turn long and raspy and the boy is moving against him as best he can. Liam bites at the boy’s thigh once more, watches the skin turn rosy as he scissors his fingers apart—feels the ring of muscle slowly loosen and sucks at the purple bruise he left on the other boy’s thigh. Liam shifts his fingers, curls them and drags, and the other boy’s fingers in Liam’s hair tighten, a sharp sound from above breaking the relative silence.

Liam remembers that sound. Remembers the afternoons/evenings/mornings/all hours of the day and night when he wanted _nothing_ but to hear it. To bring the boy to this point where all he _is_ is ragged moans as Liam adds a third finger, thumb pressing against the mark he made on the boy’s thigh. Liam takes a moment to reach his free hand between his legs and press the heel to the base of his cock because he’s so hard and he just—he’s on the verge of coming just from the sounds and taste of this boy alone, and he can’t have that. Can’t have something like feelings and memories be part of this. This is meant to clear his head and let things settle, not have Liam wrapped up in ache and want. 

Aching for a time he can taste on his tongue the moment it brushes the other boy’s skin. Wanting a love that is lost.

“Please, oh please, just do it,” the boy pleads from above as he’s near riding Liam’s fingers now and Liam’s tongue slides in between the spaces left. He can feel every wrinkle, every pucker of skin, and dips between tasting lube and something darker on his tongue. The boy is writhing above him, his legs shaking around Liam’s head, and Liam knows that it won’t take much more. He doubles his efforts, fingers curled at the right angle that has the boy above him pushing back against Liam’s hand. Liam nips and sucks, presses his tongue in and around, and his chin and lips are wet—so wet. He can’t feel his lips anymore, his tongue actually _hurts_ from the strain and his back does, too, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop when the boy above him goes rigid, back arching and muscles quivering as he clenches tight around Liam’s fingers. 

Liam somehow ends up with spunk near his eye and _God_ , he wants to fuck this boy until all he can think about is in and out and feel and _good_. He’s going to. He really is. He sits back on his knees, removes his fingers slowly and watches as the boy’s leg jerks—nearly spasms—from the oversensitive touch. Liam looks for the condoms but his hands are shaking, he’s trembling, and it’s just because of how much he _wants_ this. It’s nothing to do with anything else. Nothing to do with words said at the hospital today. Nothing to do with even more doctors telling him the same thing, and _nothing_ to do with them being harsher than ever before. 

_“It’s not fair, son.”_ . . . and why do they always have to call him son?

_“Put yourself in his shoes.”_ . . . Liam isn’t sure the answer would be any different.

_“Don’t you want your life back?”_ . . .

. . . Liam hasn’t had one of those in a long while.

He’s sitting there with the condom clasped in one hand and he’s still looking at the way the white of the other boy’s come shines all pearl-like against his olive skin. Even more so against the heavy black ink that curls over his hip and shoulder bones. He blinks and the boy sits up, hands that are far steadier than Liam’s cupping over his own.

“Let me do this, Li. Let me take care of you.”

It’s the last part that switches something back on in Liam. He’s sliding back off the bed, looking for his pants and jeans, and there’s white noise in his ears peppered by the sounds of the other boy trying to call him back. Asking him what’s wrong.

What’s right is probably a better question.

This was _such_ a bad idea.

He gets dressed quickly, doesn’t hang about to pull his shirt back on or untie his trainers to get them on. He’s at the front door when he realises there’s someone in front of it.

“Move.”

The boy shakes his head, still completely naked and looking at Liam with all the things that Liam came here to avoid. Left nearly a year ago to never have to see again.

“Liam, don’t leave like this. Don’t go when—”

“Move,” Liam says again, but with far more conviction.

“Liam, please don’t do this. You must have come here for a reason—”

“Zayn, if you don’t move I’ll move you.”

And there it is. The boy’s eyes harden. The dark brown near-black turns darker still and he opens the door wide—no care at all that his bits aren’t hidden.

“Well, fuck off, then,” he says, and Liam walks right past. Doesn’t jump when he hears the door slam. Doesn’t think about the damage he’s caused again by pushing Zayn away. A boy who fell in love with a teenage popstar who was forced to fade into obscurity. The boy who told Liam he’d never leave. The boy who Liam had to push and push and _push_ away so only one life was ruined and not two.

Some things were better faced alone.

x X x

He doesn’t leave the house the next day.

Or the one after.

The hospital doesn’t call.

And Liam doesn’t call them, either.

x X x

Liam’s outside the bar that Niall works at, half a smoke in one hand and a full in the other, just waiting to be lit. He breathes out all white and hates the burn it leaves in his lungs. Hates that he’s even breathing the damn things in, but here he is once more doing just that. It started out as something to do to keep idle hands at bay. What once would stroke keys and make marks with pen on paper, creating lyrical loveliness, no longer able to do so, allowed to do so, had to deal with the flick of a lighter and the tap of ash instead. But it’s been over a year now. Over a year since he lifted his voice in song, stood on a stage and thanked a crowd for coming and watching _him_ sing. He could have been great—was destined for many things that he was just starting to comprehend before it all got taken away in a flash. 

Most people wouldn’t have given up on what Liam did.

Most people didn’t have to deal with his situation, either.

He sucks in a lungful, tilts his head back against the brick wall and breathes out, smoke blocking the few stars that he can make out in the city tonight. He probably should have gone home hours ago. Niall had asked him to stay. Wanted him to wait until he finished up his shift so they could walk home together. So Liam didn’t have to be at the flat alone. 

Niall didn’t understand that _alone_ was all that Liam felt these days, whether in a crowded room or just lying on his bed at two in the afternoon. 

Liam stayed, though—because Niall asked and Niall had come home and just carried on with his life, didn’t ask Liam about his. Only the perfunctory question about the hospital and it’s goings-on, but when Liam didn’t answer with more than a shrug of his shoulders, Niall left well enough alone.

Best part about Nialler, really, how well he could read Liam’s emotions. Probably why Liam still kept him around out of all the people who came _before_. 

“Liam James Payne!” this slow, gravelly voice says from Liam’s left and he nearly jumps—because he _is_ in an alley and, well—back in the days of old. If there was a voice saying his name like that in a place like this, Liam would have his eyes peeled, looking for security, and his hand on his phone ready to send out an SOS text as fast as possible.

His fingers still twitch above the pocket where his phone resides.

“It _is_ you,” the voice says again, but a lot closer, and as he steps into the street a bit further Liam recognises the body the voice is coming from.

His hair looks—well, the same, a lot more curly and a lot damper than normal, and his clothes are that same shade of hipster chic that Liam’s come to expect from all the times the boy has served Liam at the off-license. His lips are pulled wide and tight into a smile that Liam is familiar with—albeit a little sloppier around the edges which is understandable as the boy sways forward, invading Liam’s space.

He smells good, like spice and warmth and a comfort Liam can’t seek.

“Well, Liam James Payne, what brings you out here?” The boy smiles wider, prodding Liam in the shoulder with his finger for each part of Liam’s name.

It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. 

Liam’s stomach flips and he isn’t sure what to label the feeling in his chest is. He just nods and sucks in more nicotine. He considers blowing it in the boy’s face but he’s still _grinning_ at Liam and Liam can’t find it in his heart to tell the boy to shove off.

“Is this counted as infidelity on your part?” the boy asks, suddenly serious if the point of his brow and the way his hands are crossed over his chest suggest.

“Infidelity?” Liam asks, words choked in a mouth that’s had nothing to do all day except drink and breathe and smoke.

“Yeah. I mean, this is a pub and obviously you drink in pubs and you also come to my store and you buy alcohol, so . . . .” He stops and shakes his head, fringe flying all over that he flips up and out of the way with the other hand. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Liam frowns and holds his cigarette up, his answer obvious—or so he thinks. 

The other boy nods and steps in closer. “Can I?” he asks as his fingertips reach out and curl around Liam’s wrist, pulling Liam’s hand toward his mouth. Liam can only watch as without waiting for an answer the other boy wraps his lips around the end of Liam’s cigarette and inhales. Breathes in just where Liam’s mouth was a few seconds before, and it does this thing—knocks the air out of Liam’s chest for a moment just _watching_ this boy’s lips purse and pull and—Liam shouldn’t have had that extra pint. 

He breathes out, _Thanks_ , white smoke curling up into the night. Liam can only blink at this boy when he turns back, and his dimples are deep as he grins at Liam, head tilted to the side so his curls are blowing in the light wind that’s starting to pick up. 

He’s so _pretty_.

“Thanks,” the other boy says, red tinge high on the apple of his cheeks, and maybe Liam’s a little more drunk than he thought.

“You’ve got—” the boy says, leaning in, and his hand is back in front of Liam’s face, rubbing over Liam’s cheek right at the corner of his mouth— “a thingy,” he whispers, because he’s _really_ close now, almost _too_ close, and Liam can’t breathe.

His eyes are big and so, so green, and he smells like vodka and something bitter like too much lemon or lime in his drinks—maybe he’s been chewing on the rinds? He tastes like it, too, and Liam’s frozen the moment he realises that this boy has his lips pressed to Liam’s and he’s _kissing_ him. 

Well—at least pressing their mouths together, which is—interesting.

Liam doesn’t move. Just sort of stands there, arms at his side and fingertips burning a little on one hand because his cigarette has burned right up, and he has to push this boy off because “Fuck, _fuck!”_

The boy blinks and his eyes widen while Liam drops the cigarette and sticks his finger into his mouth. The burn doesn’t feel any better with it in his mouth and the other boy is just staring at Liam, mouth open until he blinks, and Liam can actually _see_ when he realises why Liam’s doing what he is.

“Oh, shit. Shit—I’m sorry, so sorry.” He says all of this in a rush, grabbing at Liam’s hand again and pulling it away from his mouth with a loud pop. He pulls them both closer to the light above the pub’s back door and turnS Liam’s hand this way and that, squinting as he leans in to look at what can’t be anything more than a tiny blister.

“Come on, then,” he says, tugging Liam along toward the street. “I’ve got something for this at mine.”

“Yours?” Liam says as his feet keep moving, and the boy just nods ahead of him.

“Yeah, just around the corner.”

Liam pulls back, stopping still. “It’s really not that bad.”

The boy turns and raises a brow high into his curls. “Who exactly is training to be a doctor here and who is not?”

Liam laughs and it’s loud and he scares himself with how easily it leaves his chest. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know that much about you. I don’t even know your name.”

The boy puts his hand on his heart, features pulled into a overdramatic look of shock. “That pains me, Payne,” he snorts. “Payne and pain.”

“Ha ha, like I haven’t heard that before,” Liam says, grinning.

“I _do_ wear a badge at work, you know.”

“Sorry?” Liam says with a shrug, feeling guilty because he used to always make sure to look at badges, thank the people who did the “little” things and remember them for next time. But that was a while ago; he sort of hasn’t made the effort for anyone or anything in a long time. 

“Happens,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose. “Harry.”

Liam blinks because he may have forgotten just what they were talking about with Harry being ridiculously cute and all that. Especially with the way he can’t stop shifting his curls out of his eyes. 

“My name?” Harry says, like he’s talking to a small child. “It’s Harry.” Liam can’t help the blush that rises to his cheeks and the giggle that follows.

“Liam,” he says, because it feels right now like he should be introducing himself, what with the boy—no, Harry—saying his own name twice.

Harry—that’s what he was telling Liam—shakes his head and reaches forward to flick Liam in the forehead. “I _know_ that.”

Liam frowns and he takes a step back because the way Harry said that—well, it’s been a while since Liam was recognised, but still. 

Harry sighs and it sounds almost world-weary. “Your name’s on your ID—Liam James Payne,” Harry says, grabbing at Liam’s hand and ignoring Liam’s reaction. “Come on, now, my place, just round the corner.”

Liam holds fast and Harry tugs at his arm again. “Still doesn’t mean I should go with you, _Harry_ ,” Liam says, attempting to hide the smile that keeps tugging at his lips in a way that Liam doesn’t really know how to stop. “Could be a friendly axe murderer, for all I know.”

Harry guffaws loudly, covering his mouth with his hand, green eyes sparkling in the streetlight above. “Too messy,” he says, taking Liam’s hand again, careful with his injured finger. “Much prefer poison m’self.”

Liam laughs the whole way to Harry’s flat. 

Which really _is_ just around the corner.

x X x

“Where’d you disappear to last night?” Niall says, staggering into the kitchen from his room and pouring himself a cup of tea with his Raybans on. Inside. At three in the afternoon.

“Looks like you stayed back after hours with Finchy again,” Liam says in return, knowing how red Niall’s face will be without looking up from where he’s reading through another set of paperwork that the hospital sent through. Money for this, money for that. Always wanting more and mor,e and Liam’s bank account balance seems to fade into the distance with every page he turns.

“Touche,” Niall says, curling up on the chair beside Liam, resting his head and most of his body weight on Liam’s shoulder.

They sit there in comfortable silence—Niall sipping at his tea, Liam hitting his calculator and shuffling papers and wondering if Niall’s got enough to cover both their shares of the rent this month. Liam’s going to have to get a job at this rate. Which he can’t—he doesn’t want to. Not with . . . he can’t just yet. Not just yet.

Niall stands up, nudging Liam as he goes before placing his mug in the sink and washing it out. He ruffles Liam’s hair as he heads out of the room. “‘Bout time, mate.” 

His bedroom door closes again before Liam can figure out what he meant. It’s probably nothing like what Niall and Matt got up to in the basement at the pub. Unless they have a TV and a playstation with FIFA set up down there. And it was nice. Was lovely just forgetting _everything_ for a moment. Falling asleep on someone else’s sofa and waking up when his flatmate came in—this ginger-haired lad who just tipped his grandpa hat at Liam before dropping his guitar and heading to the door beside the one Harry had walked through hours earlier. When Liam had checked his phone he’d realised how late it was and he’d left.

Didn’t leave a note. 

His phone buzzes now, spinning on its vibrate setting with some awful tune that Niall put in which he thought was hilarious and Liam did change daily but was already so used to it he had to change it back because he’d missed a bunch of phone calls. And really, Justin Bieber’s “Believe” wasn’t all that bad. Maybe a bit much after several hundred listens but not _that_ bad.

Liam looks for a name and finds “Harry Edward Styles”, and for a moment he has no idea _who_ that is because the photo that goes with it is so blurry. He squints and is about to press end when his memory kicks in and—oh.

“Hi?” he says, a question to his tone because he can’t remember giving Harry his number—Harry from the off-license and Harry from the alley beside the pub and Harry who kicked his arse at FIFA. Let alone taking the picture that is definitely of them both possibly kissing and trying to look up at the camera at the same time. Worst kind of selfie ever, and Harry’s supposed to be a photographer in his spare time—and ah, there’s another thing he remembers.

“Liam James Payne! You didn’t leave a note!” 

Liam cringes, even though he knows Harry can’t see the pink stain to his cheeks and the way his nose is scrunched. “I meant to, I just—”

“Freaked out waking up on a stranger’s sofa and ran out without letting said stranger, who really isn’t a stranger considering we’ve a) snogged a bit and b) you missed out on my excellent bacon sarnies?”

Liam chuckles and leans back into the sofa, putting his feet up on the stack of paperwork he still hasn’t got through. “Yeah, a bit.”

“What are you doing today, then?”

Liam sighs, looking back at where his feet are resting and at the other pile of unopened mail that is sure to contain more ways for his bank balance to decrease.

“Nothing,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat from where he threw it early that morning on the arm of the sofa. “Nothing important.”  
=  
x X x

_You have FIVE new messages._

_Message One:_  
“Mr Payne, this is Doctor—”  
 _message deleted._

_Message Two:_  
“Mr Payne, this is Anna from Doctor—”  
 _message deleted._

_._  
.  
. 

_You have no new messages_

x X x

“You know, I bet there’s more things to do than play FIFA every time you come around.”

Liam shrugs. “You’re just upset because I’ve beaten you nearly every single match.” 

Harry snorts, shoves his shoulder into Liam’s where they’re sitting pressed together on the sofa, no real space between them. Liam probably should find it weird—he’s not known Harry long—but it’s not.

“Hey!”

Liam grins and manages to steal the ball from Harry’s side and is off up the pitch before Harry notices, lining up for a goal just as Harry manages to get his goalie in position. He catches sight of Harry, headband pushing back his curls, pink tongue poked out the side of his mouth as he always does when he concentrates.

Then it doesn’t matter what Harry’s looking like or looking at because Liam scores the goal anyway.

He restrains himself from jumping up and pulling his shirt off and doing a victory lap of Harry’s living room with his arms in the air. Just.

“You’re such a cheeky fucker,” Harry says, poking Liam in the side because he couldn’t resist the raising his arms part of the celebrations. Liam winces, because Harry has bony little fingers, and pokes Harry back, right in the ribs where he’s leaning forward to grab at the chips they’ve been eating through the last two of six rounds they’ve played today. Harry turns and pinches at Liam’s hip and then it’s an out and out poke and prod _war_ with the pause screen on FIFA cycling in the background. 

Harry gets the upper hand, pushing Liam back into the plush cushions of the sofa with his knee in Liam’s thigh, but Liam’s got Harry’s extended finger trapped in his fist, locked up tight. He pushes back against Harry the second he’s got him and Harry falls onto the seat while grabbing at Liam’s free hand, fingers circling _hard_ around his wrist and sort of pulling Liam on top of him. Liam just lets Harry’s finger go, though, and pawsg at Harry’s thin shirt till he gets one of his nipples and twists just right. Harry swears but he’s got a free hand now and it’s digging into the soft part above Liam’s hip and he curses himself because _Harry’s fingers are really bony._ Harry just laughs and Liam leans in and bites at his shoulder and it should be normal—it’s been a week of Liam just turning up and playing FIFA or whatever with Harry until he reminds himself to go home and shower, and that’s usually when it’s too late or too early for Niall to be home. He showers and then there’s a text or phone call from Harry to come back around because he’s on holidays from uni and he’s _so fucking bored, Payne_. 

A week. 

A week of ignoring everything but Harry on his phone. Ignoring everyone but Harry to talk to, to listen to, to be around. 

No Hospitals. No nurses. No steady beeps of machinery that doesn’t slow or hasten, just continues on in its monotony. No doctors asking for a chat. No friends being all “caring” and “there for you when you need to talk, Li.” Just Harry and FIFA and the day they played Mario Kart for twenty-four hours hopped up on caffeine drinks and No-Doz pills and chocolate—all things Harry had appropriated from the off-license before he took a week off. 

“Hey,” Harry says, nudging at Liam with the side of his head. “Li—where’d you go?” 

Liam breathes heavily against Harry’s shoulder. He doesn’t know how to answer. Not really. 

“Nowhere,” Liam says, licking his lips and over the mark he’s left on Harry’s shoulder without meaning to. Harry shudders underneath him and, well—that’s something they’ve been avoiding, too. 

“Liam,” Harry says softly, his hips rolling up, and with their legs tangled the way they are Liam can feel where Harry’s been affected by all their touch and push and pull. Harry bites off a moan and Liam is really finding it a struggle to get his breath—get his bearings—and grinds down into Harry just so he can hear Harry make that noise again. He shouldn’t be encouraging this. Shouldn’t even be here in this position with Harry—Harry, this innocent _kid_ who has no idea what Liam’s going through.

Harry’s lips are on Liam’s ear, breath hot as he whispers Liam’s name again, and Liam just—he pushes away all the why-nots, and the bad-ideas, and concentrates on what Harry _isn’t._ He doesn’t know Liam. Not Liam Payne of X Factor fame, finished third, got a record deal, made an album, had some hits and was halfway through a tour of the UK before . . . well, before. Harry doesn’t know the Liam who gave it all up—every single thing including selling his house—to buy his way out of a contract he’d signed because pushing it back a few months turned into a year and now he doesn’t know if he can even _sing_ anymore, let alone anything else. 

Harry knows him as Liam the scotch and cigarettes lad who comes in every few days and who has to start a fucking tab because he’s nearly broke.

“Fuck, Li,” Harry near-whimpers against Liam’s jaw as his mouth brushes over a day’s worth of scruff that Liam hadn’t been bothered to shave off. 

“Want—want you,” is all Harry says as their lips finally meet and Liam thinks, _Yes, I can do this_. And he _can_ , because Harry obviously likes this version of Liam that he’s come to know. Likes him enough to smile and interact with a sullen wanker for the best part when they’d barely said more than a few words at the off-license. Likes Liam well enough to crowd him in and kiss him sweetly in the alley behind a pub and take him home just to put a bloody Superman plaster on Liam’s finger over a blister small enough that it was nearly gone the next day. Harry _likes_ this version of Liam—even if Liam isn’t too sure about him himself.

“Please,” Harry whimpers as Liam finds himself reciprocating without too much thought. His tongue slides into Harry’s mouth, seeking out all he can learn about Harry through taste alone, and Harry’s hand that was joined with Liam’s from earlier now slides their fingers together and _squeezes_. Liam eats up the soft groans and half-formed words he thinks Harry is trying to make with the vibrations that hum in his throat. Liam feels them there, too, his lips pressed to the warm, pale skin of Harry’s neck and his mouth fitting over where he can feel Harry’s pulse beating fastest, and he nips at Harry’s skin because he can. 

Harry mumbles something as Liam rearranges their legs, his hand on Harry’s knee, pushing out so they slide together better. Harry’s half hard and Liams’ nearly there himself as they twist and shove and _move_ until even Liam has to try and bite down on a sound that nearly rips itself from his chest. Harry’s bucking up in this jerky manner and it’s good—it’s really good, and Liam loses himself in feeling. He blocks everything in his life but the feel of Harry’s curls against his neck as Liam has to let go of their joined hands to push himself up on the sofa beside Harry’s head. Harrys’ chasing him, though, pressing his lips to Liam’s neck and collarbone, fingers pushing Liam’s shirt up, up, up his torso until Liam has to balance on one knee and lean back to pull the thing off his body. 

Harry’s hands are all over him then, tracing over the nearly forgotten definition on his stomach and tickling lightly over his ribs before his mouth settles over one of Liam’s nipples. Liam flails a little, one hand just by his side as the other comes up to the back of the sofa just so he can hold himself still. Harry murmurs all these words that Liam can’t make out because his heart is racing in his ears, and even more so when he feels Harry’s fingertips at the drawstring on his jogging bottoms. Harry calls his name, all treacle-thick and warm, and Liam blinks and gazes down to find green eyes looking up at him, mouth red and open.

He doesn’t say anything, even with Harry’s questioning gaze, and then what he _does_ say is Harry’s name in a gasp as Harry’s got the waistband pulled down quickly and his mouth . . . .

His mouth is on Liam, and apart from what he was nearly doing with Zayn a few weeks before it’s only been Liam’s hand that’s touched that particular part of his anatomy over the past few years. Liam has to close his eyes, his fingers sliding into Harry’s curls as Harry licks at the tip, sucks him in, and _Christ._ , Harry’s just sucking and then he takes Liam in and in and “Fuck, fuck, Harry!”

Harry pulls off, jacking Liam slowly with one hand while the other presses so hard into Liam’s thigh there will _have_ to be fingerprints left there come tomorrow morning. “If you want?” he says, and his smile is one-sided, still pulling at a dimple in his cheek that Liam wants to lick. Wants to slide his tongue into that divot and see if it tastes the same _bittersweet_ as the rest of Harry seems to. 

Liam just groans, his grip tightening at the base of Harry’s skull, his fist full of curls that are so soft. Liam’s never been able to get his own hair to feel like this. Not even when he had stylists and a team of people to tame his long curls, and then his short shag, and even when he shaved it all off it was never—well, Liam could touch Harry’s hair all day. Harry sucks him back in, tongue flat and a pressure on the underside of Liam’s cock, and he watches as Harry’s eyes flutter closed. His lashes fan across high cheekbones and Liam manages to let go of the sofa long enough to cup Harry’s face and brush his thumb over them. Harry’s cheeks hollow then and Liam bites at his lip, nostrils flaring hard as he tries to _breathe_ with what Harry’s doing to him. There’s this sharp warmth low in his gut and Liam can feel his whole body heating up, tensing up, and he’s close and hates that he is when they’ve just started. 

He tugs at Harry’s hair again and Harry moans deliciously wet around him. When Liam blinks he can see Harry’s elbow shifting back and forth and—

“Are you—are you touching yourself?” he asks, because _fuck_ if that’s not hot, that Harry won’t even wait for Liam to consider reciprocating. Harry opens his eyes and the green is so dark it’s nearly indistinguishable from the blown-out black of his pupils. He pulls back so just the head is in his mouth, tongue tickling right into Liam’s slit so the muscle in his thighs tremble a bit. Harry moans again and it feels like a yes humming around where Harry’s got Liam’s foreskin pulled back, and oh _god_ , he isn’t going to last.

Harry’s name is this broken sound falling from his lips as Harry’s hand drifts down between Liam’s legs, soft tugs and fingertips skimming the surface of sensitive skin until he’s touching _right there._ It’s been so long— _so long_ since Liam’s done that, either, and it’s like everything is bubbling at Liam’s throat now, these bright sparks under his skin pulsing faster than his blood can move around his body, and all he can focus on is how it feels and the sounds Harry makes and it’s just—it’s too much.

Harry’s slowed his own movements between them, focusing on Liam and how he’s looking up at him. Red lips stretched so thin they’re nearly white in places, and he’s just still so beautiful to look at. Liam can’t stop thumbing over his cheek, and Harry’s got the head of Liam’s dick sliding against the velvety inside of his mouth and Liam can _feel_ it on both sides. His cock jerks in Harry’s mouth and Harry moans, taking him deep without a second thought, and Liam isn’t going to last at all. He’s so close he can feel it in his fingertips and down to his toes and he wants to push Harry’s head down, keep him there. When he finally does Harry chokes on him, but it’s probably too soon to let that kink out so he doesn’t—just. He tightens and releases his hold on Harry’s hair instead, lets his hand slip down to the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder. He’s got his thumb pressed lightly to where Harry is swallowing him down, and oh _god_ , it feels so—

“I’m close,” he murmurs, and Harry just nods, or maybe that’s just him bobbing up and down over Liam’s dick. Harry’s hair is a wet mess of sweat-soaked curls across his forehead and Liam’s calves feel hot from where they never actually took his track bottoms off. He can see Harry’s nipples and the outline of tattoos that are vaguely bird-shaped through the thin white of Harry’s tee that’s as damp as his forehead, and _Christ_. Harry’s fully clothed apart from where his stupid skinny jeans are loose, Harry’s hand just sitting inside, holding himself as he pushes Liam to his absolute limit.

And maybe it’s that that has Liam coming undone. Maybe it’s the way Harry pulls off for a moment, breathing hard and mouthing down the length, all hot and wet and a mix of spit and precome covering his chin. Maybe it’s the way Harry stops teasing Liam’s entrance and pushes in slow and steady as he takes Liam back down into the heat of his mouth. Maybe it’s the way Liam groans as the tip of his cock presses against Harry’s throat and then goes further in still—a tight heat that has Liam coming hard without a second to even warn Harry that he is. 

He tries to keep his hips still. Tries not to fuck into Harry’s throat, and it’s how his fingers flex and pull at Harry’s hair in his hand that keeps him from doing so. The sofa makes an awful creaking sound at how tight Liam’s grasping at the back, squeezing through the thin layer of cushion to the wood beneath, and it’s Harry’s name on his tongue but only a sound that passes his lips as Harry sucks him slow and sweet, fisting him lightly right through every shudder, every jerk of his cock on Harry’s tongue until Liam’s nearly caving in on himself, pushing at Harry instead of holding him close because it’s too much.

Liam pauses to catch his breath, just closes his eyes and tries to erase the _look_ on Harry’s face when Liam comes. There’s this white noise in his ears and it only comes back to proper sound with a cut-off moan from Harry, who’s biting at his swollen lips, teeth bright white as they press into red skin. His eyes are shut tight, and as Liam’s gaze drifts down he can see Harry’s arm like a blur inside his pants. The flushed pink tip of Harry’s cock pokes out the top of his fist every few seconds and Liam feels the want, the need to taste on the tip of his tongue, and it’s probably why he pushes Harry back onto the sofa without a second thought. Harry lets out this _oof_ and Liam’s between Harry’s legs, batting at his hand to get a grip on Harry’s cock. He’s just got his lips around the head, the barest taste of Harry tingling on his tongue, and then Harry’s groaning and spurting thick and bitter with Liam choking on most of it, some sliding out the corner of his mouth as he attempts to swallow. It’s been a long time for that, too. 

Harry’s fingers pat at Liam’s hair as Liam rests his forehead on Harry’s hip, just breathing and tasting Harry on his tongue as he swallows. Liam eventually raises his head and Harry’s just _looking_ at him—cheeks and chest flushed and mouth puffy and red and _obscene_. “Liam,” he says, and Liam crawls up Harry’s body, slants their mouths together as Harry’s blunt fingernails press into the nape of Liam’s neck.

They kiss like it’s all they need, and Liam attempts to hold himself above Harry enough so he can breathe but it’s hard when he’s just so _wrung out_. He gives up eventually, his arm shaking as he rolls into the side of the sofa, squeezing himself in beside Harry and the padded back. Harry whines a little because Liam’s basically shoving him nearly off the thing, but he wriggles onto his side, too, and it’s a tight squeeze but they make it work. Harry’s curled into Liam’s chest, and Liam’s still half naked, legs semi-tangled with Harry’s own. They lie like that for a minute, catching their breath, as the sounds of the FIFA wait screen playing on repeat in the background filter back in. 

It should be too much. It should feel like something Liam should be running from. Lying here with Harry on his sofa with nothing but how they feel now coming between them. Even that should be too much and should have Liam up and out the door and avoiding the off-license in favour of Tesco’s, even though it means he has to walk in the opposite direction and for a lot longer to get his fix. 

Harry tilts his head up and nuzzles at Liam’s neck, nipping at Liam’s jaw until Liam looks down and their lips meet and—

Well, it’s not as bad as it should be.

It’s actually the opposite of that, and that should scare the living shit out of Liam, but it’s Harry. Harry who knows nothing of Liam’s life outside the off-license and a few conversations about growing up and FIFA battles and laughing at stupid things like old cartoons that they watched when they were kids. He can’t find one part of himself that feels bad about leading Harry on, because it doesn’t feel like _he is_. This isn’t blocking the sadness that Liam feels about what’s actually going on in his real life. This isn’t a quick fix to forget for a moment that his life revolves around the hospital and doctors trying to talk at him and Liam wishing they’d all just _stop_ so he could think. This is just Harry with the curls and the pretty eyes and the luscious lips who likes to talk to Liam, likes to lick words from his mouth and—well, obviously now likes sucking Liam’s cock.

Harry pulls back from their kiss, presses his lips to Liam’s all soft and sweet—once, twice—and when he shifts back again it’s with his eyes half closed and the dopiest smile on his face. Liam can’t help but return it. 

It’s fine. It’s perfectly okay for Liam to have this. This is just a thing. It’s fine. Really.

“Come on,” Harry says after a few seconds of stupid smiles shared passes between them. “I think you can forget about getting a crick in your neck from the sofa tonight.” He sits up and reaches out to Liam, their fingertips tangling while Liam takes in his words and catches up.

“Come to bed,” Harry says, and Liam nods and follows and curls up with Harry in sheets that smell like him and a pillow that has the scent of whatever hair product he uses, and when Harry turns and makes Liam the little spoon, Liam shifts back into his embrace.

x X x

He can hear something buzzing. It’s probably his phone because he’s had the damn thing on silent—should have just turned it off.

Then there’s a sleepy mumble and a flailing arm on his chest, slapping lightly on his face and oh— _oh_. 

“Fucking fuck.”

Liam lets out a surprised “oof” as Harry’s body follows his hands movement and he leans over Liam to get at his phone on the side table. He’s got his elbow stuck on Liam’s arm, which Liam shifts because Harry can be _bony_ in places, as Harry answers his phone with a grunted “‘lo?” 

Liam lies still for the most part, presses his lips to Harry’s bare shoulder because there’s a line from the sheets that’s squished into his sleep-warm skin, and Liam travels the length of it with the tip of his tongue. It’s nic,e this, waking up to someone and it’s just them and you and the morning light and nothing else. Well—except Harry’s phone call in this case.

“But i’m not even supposed to _be_ there today,” Harry says with a whine that Liam’s used to hearing when he claims Princess Peach first when they’re playing Mario Kart.

Harry’s head falls down, face hidden by the bed and his curls falling haphazardly everywhere.

“You really can’t get anyone else? It’s just that I’ve got someone—”

Liam’s heart beats out of time and his mouth stills on the round of Harry's shoulder for a second. It’s like all the silly comfort he had before has turned cold. A bit of the past and responsibilities Liam’s trying to forget. Responsibilities and decisions from a group of so-called “superior in their field” doctors who just pushed and pushed and pushed for Liam to say _something_ like what they wanted and he couldn’t, and he ended up at the pub with Niall and then Harry. 

Harry is everything Liam’s running from. He’s the carefree to Liam’s world-weary. He’s the easy choice to thoughts Liam doesn’t even want to begin to consider. 

He’s the opposite of everything Liam’s avoiding, and if Harry has to work—Liam doesn’t exactly know what he’s going to do with himself.

“Fine. _Fine_. But you owe me. I want an extra day off next week.” Harry’s shifted back now, moved himself around so he’s lying in between Liam’s legs and resting his chin on Liam’s chest and avoiding Liam’s eyes.

“I’ve got my key. Bye.” Harry ends the call, throwing his phone somewhere behind him, and finally turns his gaze on Liam.

And Liam thought _he_ had the patent down for best puppy-dog stare. He’s got _nothing_ on Harry’s moody green hues.

“I’m so sorry. But Janeane called in sick and Rashish is on holidays in Portsmouth and, well—there’s only—”

“Only you,” Liam says, reaching up with one hand to tuck Harrys’ curls behind his ear. Something lifts in his chest when Harry’s cheeks pink and his dark lashes flutter. Liam fixes up the other side of Harry’s face and the pink darkens to red and Liam doesn’t even second guess but leans up to press his lips to Harry’s, quick and sweet.

“Um,” Harry says, blinking a little, and the fact Liam’s got him on the back foot just from initiating a kiss shouldn’t make him as decidedly happy as it does. Harry shakes his head, uprooting all the work Liam just did to tuck his curls out of his face, and uses one hand to shift the unruly waves into some semblance of order in a way Liam’s seen him do far too many times to count now. 

“I have to go in,” he says, and there’s a downturn to his lips that Liam kisses the corner of, hoping it’ll fix it but it doesn’t. Liam reaches up to cup Harry’s face, threads his fingers up into Harry’s curls, and drags his thumb across Harry’s cheek. “It’s okay,” Liam says as Harry leans into his touch, turns his face and presses his lips to Liam’s palm.

“No, it’s not, but thank you for saying it anyway. I had _plans_ for us today.”

“You did?” Liam asks as Harry nips at the fleshy pad at the heel of his hand. 

“I did,” Harry says, tracing Liam’s life line with the tip of his tongue and up and up until Liam’s curling his fingers in a little because it tickles. “And none of them—” Harry sucks on the tip of Liam’s middle finger, and if Liam weren’t half-hard from just waking _up_ beside Harry or having Harry lie all over him, he’s most definitely hard from Harry nearly performing fellatio on his bloody left hand— “involved leaving this bed.”

Liam’s gut clenches and he’s certain his cock stirs between his legs because _fuck_ if that doesn’t sound good. 

“Yeah?” is all Liam can say, mouth dry, licking at his lips as Harry fits another of Liam’s fingers between his lips, sucking them in until his tongue is flirting with tiny pulses against the webbing where they join Liam’s hand. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, breathless and biting at his lip as he pulls himself up and straddles Liam’s waist.

“I don’t have to be in for a few hours.”

“Really,” Liam says as Harry shifts up on his knees, still naked from how they both fell into bed the night before after Harry got a cloth to clean them off. 

“Ye-yes,” Harry hisses, having dragged Liam’s hand between his legs and Liam’s—he’s always one to take physical cues well. His fingertips circle Harry’s entrance and Harry’s whole body shivers, his hand patting Liam’s belly weakly. “I was even going to bring us breakfast in here.”

“Breakfast,” Liam says, watching Harry’s teeth embed in his lip, blinding white smile pressed into puffy pink flesh. “Were you going to cook for me?”

Harry nods, his mouth dropping open on whatever he was going to say because Liam’s pressed his finger in now, just a little, and he’s got his hand on Harry’s cock, too. He’s just circled his fist around the base and squeezed and there’s already a burble of clear precome on the tip, blushing rosy red.

“Eggs?” Liam asks, and Harry’s eyelashes flutter. Liam squeezes on the upstroke.

“Bacon?” Liam’s stroking his finger slowly in and out now; it’s so tight and hot and he just wants _in._

“Of— _fuck, Liam!_ Of course!” 

Harry’s pressing back onto Liam’s hand now and Liam’s cock is getting hard against his belly from the sounds Harry’s making and how he feels around just Liam’s fingers. 

“Lube?” Liam asks, because spit only goes so far. Harry pauses for a moment, thighs tense above Liam, and stares at him, head tilted to the side.

“You can’t eat—” he starts, and then his face flushes bright for reasons completely other than how hot he’s getting from what they’re doing. “Um, yeah. Under your pillow actually, in the case? Condoms, too.”

Liam raises his brow in reply because that’s more prepared for sex than he’s ever been. He reaches with his free hand to find the stash of multicoloured lube packs and a couple of condoms. 

“Not the blue ones, the green is good or the pink—have you ever used the pink?” Harry asks, and Liam just—Harry really _is_ that little bit younger than Liam, or maybe Liam never really expanded his horizons with previous boyfriends. 

“Flavoured lube?” he manages to choke out, and he reads the big print on the packs and quickly settles on the green because aloe vera for soothing is probably best right now considering his other options were warming and something about bloody _mint_. 

“We can use the pink next time, maybe,” Harry says. He’s biting at his lip again and Liam just wants to kiss the adorable look on his face away. 

“Come here,” Liam says, tugging at Harry’s elbow while clasping the lube pack in between his knuckles. Harry leans in close, back arched so he’s still got Liam’s fingers inside him, and their lips brush, push together, and Liam’s licking into Harry’s mouth before he remembers he was fingering him and, yes, need to keep doing that. Harry eventually straightens, eyelashes fluttering as he settles deeper on Liam’s finger, and he takes the packet from Liam, tearing it open with the most minimal of tremors in his hands. His hand disappears between them, tugging at Liam’s wrist. Harry moans softly in his chest as Liam’s fingers leave the tight heat inside and Harry drizzles lube on his own fingers and, well, then he’s tucking his hand behind him, leaning back, and his eyes close, nostrils flaring and—

“Oh, Christ, your—” 

Harry’s smile returns at the corner of his lips. This is Harry prepping himself for Liam and they don’t even _know_ each other that well. Liam’s never been one for one-night stands or one-time hookups, so this—fucking Harry—is different. It means something more because he’s been kissing Harry on and off for a week and that progressed to blow jobs the night before, and now—well, now Harry’s probably got three fingers tucked in deep and he’s rocking above Liam and Liam’s so hard it might actually hurt. He throws the pack of lube on Liam’s chest, and Liam takes that as a hint that he may want to get involved again.

Liam manages to get the condom on himself and he’s only spilt a little of what was left in the lube Harry tossed on him, slicking himself up as Harry licks at his red lips and chokes out these moans from just _fucking himself_ on his fingers. Liam’s finding it hard to even breathe, just watching Harry open himself up, and then there’s the fact that the second he got his hand on his own cock a bead of precome rose and fell from the head of his dick, falling tackily onto Liam’s stomach as he holds himself at the base. He wants this, he _really_ wants to find out what it’s like to fuck Harry and what other noises Harry will make—is he loud when he comes or will he be silent and shudder his way through it? He wants to know all the little things about Harry and it’s been so long, _so long_ since he’s actually let himself care about anyone else that this moment is pretty huge, dawning on him like the rays of sun lighting the room around them. 

“Must I do everything?” Harry snarks with a grin around teeth pressed deep into kiss-bruised flesh.

Liam shakes his head. “‘s been a while,” is all he says. It’s honest, if nothing else.

“Okay,” Harry says, and his green eyes are just so open and wide and filled with something Liam doesn’t want to think about as his hand shifts and he slides a bit further up Liam’s chest. Harry’s knocking Liam’s hand out of the road, gripping Liam at the base, and then his eyes stay on Liam’s as the head of Liam’s cock catches on the slick of Harry’s rim where his fingers just were. Harry gasps and Liam’s holding his breath as Harry gets himself all lined up and just starts _sinking_ slowly down. Liam’s fingertips brush Harry’s kneecaps and— _fuck_ —Harry looks so good. He’s still watching Liam and his mouth has dropped open again, pink tongue peeking out and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and swallows around nothing but air. Liam can’t stop taking Harry in, his eyes sweeping over Harry’s torso—the way his nipples are hard and taut, the two extra ones standing out from the pink flush of his normally pale skin. His stomach muscles clench as he finally gets seated and Harry’s cock kicks up against his belly, the head wet with precome, and Liam _wants_.

Harry’s got his hands on his thighs, just resting there as his eyes stay closed, and Liam needs him to do _something_ because he’s overcome. His hips flex the tiniest amount and it’s enough to pull a long moan from Harry, who takes it as a sign that Liam’s ready for more and he finally—finally—moves. Christ, Liam can _feel_ all of Harry as he shifts up only to slide back down with this even-tempered move that Liam isn’t sure he’d be capable of if the tables were turned. He’s just so turned on—and Harry looks it, too, his prick thick and heavy and bouncing up against his belly as Harry moves, and there’s this burning tension spreading out through his body that Liam doesn’t want to end but wants more of with every roll of Harry’s hips. Liam reaches up—finally remembering that his hands can do more than just grip the sheets white-knuckled—and links his fingers with Harry’s instead. Harry grins and blinks, green eyes filtering back in, and his smile widens even further as he focuses on Liam.

“Come ‘ere,” Liam says, because he can’t stare at Harry with his red lips and his flushed skin and his bedhead a mess of dark curls without _kissing_ him. He likes kissing Harry. Likes how it makes him concentrate on one thing and block out everything else, as if Harry’s the white sound he’s been searching for when everything else is as loud as the theatres he used to sell out, barely even hearing the sound of his own voice when performing. Harry sucks on Liam’s tongue and their kiss turns filthy-wet and Liam bites at Harry’s lip as he shifts his feet up, planting them flat against the mattress. Harry groans, nips at Liam’s chin and leans back against Liam’s thighs and—yeah. Yeah, this is even better. 

Harry runs his hands over Liam’s chest, alternating between his mouth on Liam’s nipples and his fingers teasing them. Liam’s gripping Harry’s hips now, feels the hard press of his bones under his fingertips, rubs his thumbs into the hollow beneath them. Harry is all warm skin and inked swirls of colour and black outlines. There are birds on his chest—they look like swallows that blokes in the navy or something have—and he’s got lyrics on his left arm and a star that Liam wants to bite the skin around. There are words that must mean things to Harry, covering his inner arms and wrists, and Liam wants to read them all with the tip of his tongue. There’ll be time for that, though. Time to explore every inch of Harry and press his lips to all the imperfections that make Harry perfect for Liam. 

Not perfect. Not really. But perfect for now.

Harry’s murmuring this litany of words—half-formed sentences and bits of things that sound like “Liam” and “so good, so fucking good” and “gonna come, don’t wanna come yet,” and he drags out the _yet_ on a moan that Liam feels vibrate under his fingers as he slides his hand up Harry’s chest, lightly but Harry’s skin is stretched so thin he can feel every bone of his ribs, every indentation between them—and then it’s up and he’s curling his hand around the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him close once more. It must be the right thing, the right angle, because Harry’s breath stutters against Liam’s lips and Harry loses the rhythm from before, his thrusts stilling to nothing. Liam takes over then, rolls them quickly onto Harry’s back and he’s got his arms under Harry’s knees, pushing them back up Harry’s body and Harry’s head is thrown back and all Liam’s done is give one good, deep, thrust.

“Oh god, please, _please_ , Liam, just like that,” Harry mumbles, out of breath, Adam’s apple bobbing. Liam leans in, nips at the sharp angles of it as he presses his hands into the bed on either side of Harry and _lets go_. 

Harry’s making these little “uh, uh, uh” sounds and Liam’s too busy watching Harry’s reactions to even think about what he’s saying in return. He knows he’s said Harry’s name a couple of times, but all he can concentrate on is how it feels to be _inside_ Harry and how Harry can’t stop _touching_ Liam and, and . . . 

It’s just a lot to take in.

The one thing he _does_ know is that he’s close and Harry is, too, from the sound of things, so he pushes Harry’s legs up further. Liam gets Harry’s ankles over his shoulders and then he’s really pounding into Harry. The headboard is banging against the wall and with a gutteral, stuttered, “Shit!” Harry’s got his hands behind his head and palms flat against the wood. Liam’s just watching Harry—watching the way his brow is furrowed and how he keeps biting hard at his bottom lip only to release his bruised flesh to lick over nearly cut skin. He watches as Harry’s eyes go from rolling towards the back of his head to staring so hard into Liam it almost feels like he can see _everything_. 

Liam can’t have that. Can’t even begin to think about Harry knowing anything more than Liam being the lad with the scotch and cigarette habit. He can’t.

“C’mon,” he says, bending in low and just fucking Harry deep—hardly moving at all. “C’mon, Harry.” Liam breathes this against Harry’s lips and he’s just grinding into Harry now, pushing aside how close he is himself because he’s determined Harry will come first. He _needs_ Harry to come first. Harry’s bent like a pretzel and he’s so hot and tight where he’s squeezing around Liam and Liam’s sliding his hand between them over Harry’s sweat-covered skin and he’s just got his hand on the crown of Harry’s prick when Harry’s shaking around him. Harry’s come is hot and wet over Liam’s fist, his back arching up as far as possible in the space between them, and Liam’s mouth opens as he _watches_ Harry come from just Liam’s dick alone.

When the last of his shudders rock their way through Harry’s body, he reaches up with one shaking hand to pat at Liam’s face, his thumb sliding over Liam’s lips. Liam takes it as an offering —even if it’s not—and sucks Harry’s thumb into his mouth, tongue feeling every whorl on his skin as he starts fucking into Harry once more. He’s so close, and with Harry’s taste on his tongue and Harry hot and clenching down on his cock it’s not going to take much more to get Liam there as well. Harry’s eyes are so big and green and there’s this colour on his cheeks—he looks as well fucked as Liam knows him to be. He leans up to whisper in Liam’s ear, “Your turn.”

Which is it for Liam. He feels Harry tighten around him once more and he let’s Harry’s legs drop from his shoulders, fall open wide onto the bed. Liam sits up, pulls out of Harry, and rips off the condom, sending it somewhere off to the side of the bed. His breathing sounds ragged and loud to his ears in the quiet room as he gets a hand on his cock, fisting the head with tugs so quick and fast it feels like his hand is a blur. His hips stutter out of rhythm and he’s comes hard, closing his eyes to the starbursts behind his lids as he bites down on his lip, curving over himself and Harry as he comes, painting Harry’s stomach with a second lot of white and a dribbled mess for the morning. When he’s finished, and still shaking, he collapses by Harry’s side, face-first into the pillow Harry had slept on all night. He’s so completely _done_ that he can’t even shift his hand out from beneath him; it’s still wrapped loosely around his dick. 

“Fuck” is what he manages a few moments later, after swallowing a bit just to get his mouth to stop being so dry. 

“You made me all dirty,” Harry mumbles, this snark to his tone that if Liam didn’t know him better—and he does know a few things about Harry—he would think was purposely whiney. 

“Sorry?” Liam says, turning his head to the side so he can look at Harry while he tries to remember what breathing is and that he does have body parts that aren’t just his lungs at the moment. 

Harry reaches out a hand and pats at Liam’s side, looking like he doesn’t have much control over his body either. “‘s all right,” Harry says, blowing at a curl that’s landed over one eye. “Though I don’t know how I’m going to sit at work all day after that. Been a while since anyone’s bent me into a pretzel.”

He’s frowning as he says this, stretching his legs from what Liam can see, and Liam can’t help the giggle that bursts from his lips and how he has to bury his face at Harry’s reaction the moment it does. 

“Hey!” Harry says, all sleepy slow—how he always sounds—and Liam laughs harder with each of Harry’s finger-pokes to his side. “I could make you come and sit there with me all day too, you know, as punishment.”

“N-no, stuff to do, people to see, places to g-go, _have you quite finished?_ ” Liam asks after having to roll back onto his side to grab and hold Harry’s fingers in his own. He’s smiling and his cheeks hurt with how happy he feels in this instant and Harry grins back at him from under fallen curls that are sticky with sweat. Liam squeezes Harry’s hands and laces their fingers together and he leans in to quickly press his lips to Harry’s, but Harry pulls him closer, kisses him harder. Liam blames the bliss of getting off for how he can’t wipe the smile from his face enough to properly snog Harry. It’s that and nothing more. Not the tickling that started this last night that they’re reenacting now, and not the way Harry’s green eyes are just _looking_ at him. There’s a fondness in his stare that makes Liam have to blink and look away. It’s more than he can ask for, more than he can return. 

“I have to get ready,” Harry says softly against Liam’s lips, pressing their foreheads together and breathing out slowly, and it makes something in Liam’s chest ache in a way it hasn’t for a long time. It also reminds Liam that what he’s doing here is hiding, and it might be okay for him, but for Harry it’s something else entirely. 

He really shouldn’t have spent the night.

“Okay,” Liam says, pulling back but not far because Harry is still gripping their joined hands tightly and the feel of Harry holding on makes Liam feel warm, tingly, and not just after the fact lovely, either. This is why he should have stopped the moment they’d kissed more than outside the pub. This is why he should have just continued treating Harry as the lad at the off-license with a nice smile and pretty eyes. He can’t afford to get attached. Not with how his life is. Not with how life can be so cruel and short.

“I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want you to, either,” Liam says automatically—like his heart is completely ignoring the thoughts in his head and rerouting itself directly to his mouth. 

He feels Harry’s small smile against his lips as he kisses him quickly once more, then rolls out of bed, leaving Liam there with his eyes closed and fingers grasping at air, cold and alone. 

“I’ll be back round six. You could stay or we could go out or something. Niall said he’s playing a little tonight at the pub.” 

Liam shrugs and rolls onto his stomach again, avoiding Harry’s stare and how Harry must look in the diffused light from his dirty bedroom windows—still beautiful and naked and utterly out of Liam’s reach.

“All right,” he mumbles, because when did Niall become a part of Harry’s life that he _knows_ things like that? Since when do they do things together that involve planning in advance? He _really_ shouldn’t have stayed this long. Liam’s berating himself, wondering how he let it get this far, when Harry’s lips are on his cheek and his hand is warm on Liam’s shoulder with a tight squeeze.

“Text me when you decide. There’s plenty of food in the fridge if you get hungry and I washed your jeans that you left here the other night when you got wine on them. They’re in the top drawer and you can borrow a shirt if you want. Pants too, if you’re not weird about that type of thing.” 

He sounds all unsure toward the end, everything becoming a question, and it’s endearing and has that warmth in Liam’s chest pulsating again and _god_ , what has he let himself fall into?

Liam nods because he’s sure he’ll say something he shouldn’t if he speaks, and Harry’s lips press to his skin once more and then he’s making some more noise, the rustle of clothes and the clink of a belt, before the door closes and Liam hears the shower start. He should get up and go now. Throw his clothes on that are dirty from the night before and leave and never come back. But Harry’s bed _is_ comfortable and he can—maybe he can just have this for now. Another day. Another few hours of forgetting everything that hurts and just pretending this is a life he could have right now.

He’s nearly fallen back asleep by the time Harry gets out of the shower. Liam feels Harry’s eyes on him as he listens to Harry get dressed. He ignores the brush of Harry’s fingers through his hair, tender and gentle and with more affection than Liam will let himself believe in. 

He dreams of green eyes and smiles that belong to more than just the boy he’s been sleeping with, of a family before and of knowing eyes and a blush on his skin as he holds the hands of the boy he could be falling in love with. If love was a thing Liam believed in anymore.

x X x  
,  
Liam’s phone is dead. He shakes it like he used to do his old phone battery to get the last little bit of energy out of it but it’s a no-go. It doesn’t matter. The only people who try and track him on the damn thing he doesn’t want to talk to anyhow. Apart from Niall, but he knows where Liam is and if he really wanted to get in touch he’d have dropped around or texted Harry—which Liam still can’t get his head around, Harry and Niall being that close. Then again, Liam doesn’t really know all that much about Harry. 

He _does_ know from being in his shower why Harry’s hair and body always smell like coconuts (and now Liam does, too). He knows from standing at Harry’s sink and using the spare toothbrush and toothpaste that Harry left on the bench that Harry is thoughtful—and a bit of a dental hygiene freak considering his expensive-looking electric toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, and two different types of floss he has there also. He knows that Harry always looks bed-rumpled but he fastidiously separates and folds his tee-shirts in some strange colour order in his drawers. He knows that Harry is close to his family from the photos that cover the dresser and also appear randomly throughout Harry’s flat. 

He knows that Harry cares about Liam more than he should from how he’s got Liam’s jeans folded in the top left drawer all on their own—Liam’s socks he lost when he played football with Harry the other afternoon in the rain are in there, too. Liam having a drawer of his own hits him in the chest with this pang of emotion that he can’t—won’t—label. He doesn’t borrow any of Harry’s pants; instead he puts on the jeans and the first shirt in one of the stacks and rolls the socks on, too, because Harry’s floors are always cold. He’s shutting the drawers back up when the bottom one comes loose, and when he pushes at it he notices something stuck halfway out. He tries shoving at it with his foot but it won’t budge, so he pulls it open instead. It’s stuck a little more than he thought, so when he really pulls he falls backwards onto his bum.

Liam sits up and murmurs a quiet _shit_ under his breath because he’s not only pulled the drawer out, he’s pulled the face off and a bunch of Harry’s things are spewing out onto the floor. Liam begins picking them up—it’s papers and an assortment of photos and junk that at first Liam’s laughing at because they’re obviously bits from when Harry was in college and school before that. There are photos of Harry with girls and boys and he looks a right mess in some, pupils blown wide and cherry-red lips from whatever he’d been drinking or who he’d been kissing. There are obvious school report cards, which he glances at, but Liam’s mostly just gathering everything back up to put back in the drawer he’s going to have to attempt to fix. 

There are CDs, too, and Liam snorts at younger Harry’s taste with an Aqua and S Club 7 album in his grasp, but then there’s a cover that Liam knows—and his laughter dies in his throat.

It’s Liam’s. It’s Liam smiling back at him, all happy and carefree and a little naive on the cover. He turns it over and there’s writing in thick black permanent marker on the back in a scrawl he knows to be his own.

_”Hi Harry! Don’t be afraid to reach for the stars! Liam xx”_

Christ, he was so blinded by good fortune back then. 

His stomach turns and his skin feels cold—clammy—like there’s ice in his veins. He keeps picking up items from the floor and there are old magazine posters that are torn at the edges and faded but perfectly folded like they were special enough to care about and keep. It’s Liam in various poses and winter and summer colours and clothes, and he remembers each photoshoot. He remembers the _Sun_ article about his sexuality when he was caught coming out of a club with Zayn pulled close to his hip and Louis dancing provocatively out in front of them with some boy he’d picked up inside. He remembers the _Attitude_ article when he came out and how he got the flack he’d been expecting but a lot more support than he thought he would have. He remembers the gig at Wolverhampton Concert Hall and how it had felt to stand on stage in front of people he’d grown up with, the town he had called home since forever. 

Liam falls back on his feet, eyes closing fast as flashes of memories he’s tried to put out of his head come rushing back in. He remembers how it felt when he came off stage in London to the biggest crowd yet, searching for familiar faces and finding one that was devastated instead. He remembers the way Zayn just _looked_ at him and he knew. He knew that something was terribly wrong and he collapsed to the floor in the wings before Zayn had even opened his mouth. Liam remembers the flashes of paparazzi at the hospital. He remembers the doctor’s mouth moving—remembers Zayn being on one side and Paul, his bodyguard, on the other. He remembers being led to where his mother and sister lay in absolute silence, and he remembers asking to be left alone.

He remembers the _Daily Mail_ having to retract an earlier statement about him doing the concert knowing that his family had been involved in a horrific car accident. He remembers the fucking basket of mini muffins and bouquets of flowers they sent to his dad and Nicola’s room because Liam hadn’t left them since he arrived at the hospital that awful night. He remembers Zayn and Louis shielding him from the rain and the well-meaning fans that lined the streets while he attended the church service committing three of his four family members to the ground. Liam remembers selling his house to keep Nicola in a private room at the best hospital because there was a chance that she’d come out of her coma. He remembers slipping into normal life and bunking in with Niall in his shitty little tenancy in the allotment that probably should have been knocked down ten years before. 

Liam feels sick. His stomach rolls with all of this that Harry so obviously knows—Harry _knows_ who he is and who he was and he’s never—

Liam starts packing everything away into the drawer, just files the things about himself at the bottom and bangs the front back on. He picks up his clothes from the floor and his wallet and keys from the living room and locks the front door. He stops at Tesco’s, buys his scotch and cigarettes that he’s hardly been smoking since staying at Harry’s, and finishes three before he steps inside the flat, glad that Niall isn’t home.

x X x

**text from: Harry :)**  
6.07pm 6 days ago— _hey li, you disappeared on me..._

**text from: LYING WANKER**  
7.12am 5 days ago— _you coming over today? got the weekend off..._  
 **missed call from: LYING WANKER**  
10.38am 5 days ago— _to return call please..._

**text from: LYING WANKER**  
11.52am 4 days ago— _5 a side game at the park today, you never ans..._  
 **missed call from: LYING WANKER**  
3.01pm 4 days ago— _to return call please..._

**text from: LYING WANKER**  
10.49pm 3 days ago— _did i do something wrong?_  
11.20pm 3 days ago— _are you ignoring me?_  
1.05am 2 days ago— _liiiiiiiam liaaaaaaaaaaaam IDOFJ_  
1.07am 2 days ago— _THISD SCOTJLKH TALKSJETES LIKE YOUIKJD_  
1.11am 2 days ago— _COAOME OFVERT SOI CAND SUCKU YOUR COKC_  
1.12am 2 days ago— _this is will, hazzas mate, ignore all that he’s drunk as fuck_  
1.12am 2 days ago— _i jsutit like you aljot and lawill took dmy fphone but i gots a_  
1.15am 2 days ago— _you have 12 missed calls from..._  
1.47am 2 days ago— _anserwlr your damdangl fahone_  
5.20pm 2 days ago— _i’m sooo sorry! there was a party and..._

**missed call from: LYING WANKER**  
8.00pm 2 days ago— _3 missed calls from..._

**text from: LYING WANKER**  
3.05pm today— _i miss you .x_  
7.32pm today— _:( :( :( :(_

**Are you sure you want to delete this thread?**  
 **Thread deleted**

x X x

“Harry asked about you tonight.”

Liam doesn’t look up from his position on the sofa, just takes a long drag on his smoke and washes away the taste with more scotch.

“Looked a bit down.”

There’s an explosion on screen from the roof caving in in Bane’s lair so he pretends not to hear whatever else Niall says as he sits down beside Liam.

They watch in silence for a while, Liam smoking and Niall taking pulls from the can of lager in his hand, and Liam thinks maybe he won’t have to talk about it. They never really discussed Harry before Liam spent an entire week in Harry’s house. They really shouldn’t have to discuss him now.

Niall sniffs and rubs at his nose, Liam throws the tissues at him from the corner table, and when nothing else is said Liam thinks Niall might have let it go.

Of course, when the credits are rolling and Liam’s considering watching the extras disc again—that’s when Niall strikes.

“Harry’s a decent bloke, Li. Whatever else shit you’ve got going on—it’s not fair to treat him the way you are. He’s—”

“Nice?” Liam spits the word like it’s a bad taste in his mouth. He’s on his feet, emotion boiling in his blood. “Nice? He’s a liar, Niall. He knows who I am—was. He has magazine pieces about me and I met him at some bloody signing and he’s got tickets from the Wolverhampton show and he grew up in Holmes Chapel so he had to have travelled just to _see_ me there!”

“Maybe he didn’t know how to bring it up—” Niall begins, biting at his lip with a furrowed brow. Obviously he didn’t know this, either.

Liam laughs. “He couldn’t have just come out with it the whole year he was serving me at the off-license? He couldn’t have mentioned something when he took my ID that time? Or maybe the words got trapped in his throat when he was sucking my cock or maybe he did say it,” Liam pauses, “but I was already asleep in his bed,” he ends weakly, sitting back down beside Niall. He feels like he can’t catch his breath, can’t get past the tightness in his chest that’s making his eyes water.

Niall shakes his head and scrubs a hand down his face. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, Li.” 

Liam shrugs. It’s like all the anger has gone out of him now that he’s told Niall everything, leaving no stone unturned. His heartache is right out there in the open when he hadn’t even really admitted even to himself how much he cared about Harry. What having someone he thought liked him for him again meant. How letting himself fall for Harry was so easy, and really, that’s the sign he should have been looking at differently.

“I’ll get your scotch and shit from work. I’ll talk to Andy who runs that side of things. Been there a few months now and I sing for free, so should be worth a staff discount.”

Liam leans into Niall’s side and Niall lifts his arm, tucking Liam against his chest.

“You don’t sing _that_ well,” Liam says, voice still tight from the block in his throat that had begun to ease before Niall squeezed him close.

“Cheeky fucker. See if I offer to do your harmonies when you finally make another album.” Niall ruffles Liam’s hair and Liam laughs a little before closing his eyes and letting Niall’s fingers scratching softly against his scalp, sending him to sleep.

x X x 

“Nice to see your face again, Mr—Liam.”

Liam makes himself smile because this particular Nurse—Edith—has always made it a point to remember that he likes to be called by his first name. 

“I’m sure you missed me,” Liam says, hand on the door he hasn’t entered in over two weeks. A door he still knows every splinter, cracked paint line, and scuff mark on.

A smile plays at the edges of Edith’s lips before her eyes turn serious. “A little. But I think she missed you more,” she says softly, head tilting toward the room Liam’s about to enter.

He says nothing, just pushes the door open until he’s sure Edith’s gone, her squeaky shoes loud in the mostly silent corridor.

“I wish she did.”

x X x

It’s been a month and the doctors have left him mostly alone. He’s come and sat by Nicola’s bedside every day. Sometimes he barely says a word—just a “Morning, sis” and a “see you tomorrow, Nic” at night. Sometimes he remembers stories from when they were kids and he laughs and pretends he can hear her giggling in return as he recalls some prank they pulled on Ruth or their parents. Sometimes he’ll smile and tell her about something Niall’s done that usually features Nialler blushing red to the roots of his bleached-blond hair and involves the massive crush he has on Finchy, one of the other bartenders. Sometimes he talks to her about what he saw on the bus over, the people going about their daily lives while he sits and waits and hopes that something will change. That he’ll be able to see her eyes again, see her smile. Hear her voice.

It’s been a month and nothing is different—not that anything’s changed since about six months ago when she started getting worse and not better. Her brain activity isn’t stagnant anymore—it’s slowly decreasing and Liam knows it. He knows the hoping and waiting she’ll come out of this coma isn’t good for her, and it’s really not good for him, but—

He can’t. He can’t give up. 

Edith mentioned something to him yesterday about the head doctor wanting to meet with him before the week was out. That she wasn’t supposed to tell him, but they were bringing in a member from their own psych ward and board members to discuss his situation. _His situation_. Like he wanted to be here. As if he enjoyed brushing Nicola’s hair and watching her waste away to skin and bone in front of his eyes.

As if he _enjoyed_ seeing her fade into nothing. The last member of his family. 

As if he wanted to do this on his own.

It’s getting late and he knows he’s got to leave soon if he’s going to be in time to get the last bus back. He hates this part of the day; it’s ridiculous to think that something might happen in the few hours he’s away from her, but it still makes him antsy every time he leaves. 

“Just getting a coffee, Nic. If you open your eyes for me, blink or something, I’ll get you one of those hot chocolates that you think tastes better out of these machines than anywhere else.”

Liam watches and waits and closes his eyes for a moment before opening the door. 

“Guess it’s coffee for one, then.”

He’s lucky in where they’ve got her room, two rooms down from a hot drinks machine. The money for this private clinic was definitely worth selling his house for. It was worth giving up a life he’d only just glimpsed to hold out hope for her. He’s just adding a sugar when he hears a soft curse in the hall and it has him looking up fast.

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

Liam blinks and blinks and—yes, definitely Harry down the hall. Harry who looks just like Liam remembers—hair a little longer, maybe, and purple bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep or something like it. Liam’s stomach turns and his pulse races and he just keeps _blinking_ , hoping he’s wrong.

Harry takes a few steps closer, biting at his bottom lip. “Liam, I—”

“What are you doing here?” Liam asks again, because he hasn’t got an answer yet and Harry is _here_ and it’s thrown Liam for a loop.

Harry brushes his fringe up and off his face and licks at his lips before answering. “I’m on rotation—I told you, remember, it’s part of my—”

“No, no,” Liam says with a shake of his head. “I would have remembered if you said you were coming _here_ for that. What is this? Do you want to add another round to your fifteen minutes of fame? Think you can sell stories about me to the rags? Wouldn’t even think about it, mate. I haven’t been news in forever,”

“Liam—” Harry starts, but Liam’s too wound up, too caught up in his confrontation to let Harry get much more than a word in.

“I found your stash about me. Little shrine in your bloody drawers filled with my face. Did you think I’d never find out? Was it a good laugh with you and your mates? Harry Styles fucks ex popstar Liam Payne! I bet it was a riot, that.”

Harry is shaking his head and Liam’s voice has got loud enough that a few of the nurses down at the station have popped their heads around the corner. Edith is one of them, and she’s already on her way down toward them when Liam drops his voice.

“I was stupid to let myself believe that—” he pauses, staring at the ground— “I _liked_ you, Harry.”

“Liam.” Harry says his name with a sadness, a pity that Liam never wanted or needed from Harry.

“Mr Payne, is there a problem here?” Edith interrupts, standing between them like she’s ready to jump into the fray and break them apart if need be. Not that there’s a reason anymore, all the fight’s left Liam now. He’s barely holding himself upright, arms wrapped tight across his torso because of how Harry looks and how he remembers Harry making him feel and how he _hates_ himself for believing that good things could happen to him anymore at all.

“I want him off the floor. I don’t want him anywhere near me or my family, all right?” he says, eyes trained on Harry, who pulls back like he’s been stung. It shouldn’t make Liam feel bad, the ache in his chest squeeze harder, but it does. He isn’t a mean person by nature, but he just—he can’t have Harry here.

“I’ll make the arrangements. Come along, Styles, they need extra help down in the children’s ward.”

Edith grabs Harry by the elbow and steers him back up the hall, and only when they’ve rounded the corner do Liam’s legs finally give way. He manages to get a hand out for balance on the wall before he falls completely and he bends down, resting one hand on his knee as he tries to get his breathing back to normal. Harry’s gone, but Liam can still see him behind his eyelids squeezed tight. He can see Harry’s reactions to Liam’s words. He can see the way Harry looked in bed the day it all went downhill. He can see Harry’s smile over the breakfasts they’d had together and the way he laughed when Liam said things he didn’t think were _that_ funny. Not enough for the barking laugh that would shoot out of Harry uninhibited—no care at all for how loud he was or where they were. 

He’d been so _stupid_ to get involved. He’d pushed everyone in his life away because of this—Louis and Zayn, especially Zayn—just so they wouldn’t have to be bogged down with all the waiting. Wouldn’t have to live half-lives while Liam tried to live enough for two , just waiting and watching for any sign of Nicola waking up. He’d promised his dad he’d look after her. Promised his dad he wouldn’t leave Nicola alone. “You’re all she has, m’boy. I’m so sorry to put this burden upon you, but it’s just going to be the two of you.” The very last words he’d uttered before he succumbed to injuries, words he’d barely lived long enough to even _speak_ to Liam, were all about responsibility. And Liam had always been responsible, always been the one with a good head on his shoulders, and he made a promise. A _promise_ that he’d look after Nicola. That he’d put her first, and he has, and he will. And it’s with that thought that he rights himself, grabs his coffee, and heads back down the hall.

Back to where he’ll stay until she doesn’t need him anymore. 

x X x

Three weeks pass and everything’s the same. He’s back to the monotonous life of cigarettes and coffee in the morning, two bus rides, and a walk to the hospital. He brushes Nicola’s hair and paints her nails—he’s gotten really good at it now, hardly ever gets any on her fingers. Same for braiding her hair, too—even the nurses comment on how neat he gets it. He talks to her some days, stays silent and listens to the machines that monitor her life on others. 

He doesn’t think about Harry. Doesn’t think about how for a moment he had a taste of what life could be like without responsibilities. That he could have someone again who was just interested in him, not pitying him for the life he has to lead. He pushes Harry from his mind like he’d deletes him from his phone. He won’t think about anything like having a proper life. He made a promise. Nicola would always, _always_ come first, and Liam second.

He has to.

x X x 

“Are we ever going to talk about Nicola?”

Liam blinks and nearly chokes on the spoonful of cereal he just put in his mouth. It isn’t often that he and Niall share a breakfast on a weekday—Liam’s always off for the bus and Niall’s either asleep after working at the pub or headed out to classes at the little college where he’s finally finishing his A levels. Niall left school when he was sixteen and didn’t know what he wanted from life, only that he didn’t want the life he was forced to live by staying at home. That was right about when Liam and his family lost touch with Niall. Liam got a few phone calls here and there, they even met up at the same parties a few times, but until the accident he hadn’t properly seen Niall in years.

But he and Niall had always been close; growing up in houses across from each other since they were seven helped with that. The only two boys in their street around the same age to play with. Mothers who enjoyed each other’s company until Niall’s dad joined the Horans from Ireland and, well, that sort of ended any type of relationship Moira had with anyone outside the family home. Niall had Liam, though, and when things got too loud, too painful at home, he was always welcome in the Payne household. Always an extra place set at the table, the second single bed that Liam’s dad squeezed into Liam’s room— _just in case, not forever, mind_ — that Niall would use when things got really bad. He never hid the bruises from Liam. Never had to hide anything from his best mate. It worked both ways. Well—up until now.

“What?” Liam answers with a question of his own, putting his spoon back in the bowl and avoiding Niall’s stare.

“Nicola. Your sister. The hospital called yesterday when you were asleep on the sofa and—Liam, why didn’t you tell me how bad it is?”

Liam shrugs and stirs the cornflakes around in the stew of milk he’s created. He hates it when they’re soggy, and discussing this with Niall now means they _will_ be.

“It’s fine. She’s fine.”

“No, she’s not.”

Liam says nothing, just stirs and stirs. The dry cornflakes are becoming wet, and if he doesn’t return to eating them soon they’ll soak all the milk up and he hates that. 

“She’s going to get better” is all he says, and he feels the corner of his lip twitch, sadness at the lies he tells himself—tells everyone—unable to be hidden on his face this early in the morning.

“They said she’s got near to no brain activity, Li. They say she’s wasting away and you’re—they say you won’t let her go. She deserves more than this, Li. She deserves more than to lie there and become a shadow of the girl we loved.” Niall says it so gently, so full of caring, and Liam hates it. He hates that he knows Niall is right, but he can’t; he made a promise that he wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her go if there was still a chance.

“She’s going to be _fine_ ,” Liam grinds out. “How would you know any different?” he asks sharply, pinning Niall with his stare. “You don’t see her, you don’t know _anything_.”

“And whose fault is that?” Niall says, slapping his hand on the tabletop. “You won’t _let_ me. You won’t let me come with you. They won’t let me see her because I’m not family—”

“But you’re not, though. You’re _not_ her family, Niall. I am. Me. There’s only _me_ left!” Liam raises his voice and stands, pushing his chair back hard.

Niall is up as soon as Liam is, face flushed red and hands gesticulating everywhere like he does when he’s really fired up about something. “I should be! I’ve known you forever! I practically grew up at your house and Nicola was—has always been like a sister of my own!”

“But she’s not—”

“No, she’s not my blood or whatever, Liam. But don’t you think I miss her, too? Don’t you think I mourn every single one of them? That I don’t miss having your mum around or your dad to talk to when things get rough? Don’t you think I miss Ruth’s laugh or—”

“Don’t. Don’t,” Liam says, fists tight at his sides as he feels this rush of emotion—hurt, anger, betrayal, even, making his blood boil. “You don’t get to talk about them. They aren’t your family, Niall.”

“I _know_ that! Don’t you think you’ve made it blatantly obvious with how you forgot to even mention to me about the fucking funeral? You had your fucking boyfriend and bandmate there, but me? _Me?_ I grew _up_ with you. I shared my entire fucking childhood with you and I was relegated to the fucking crowds beyond the fences because you couldn’t pick up a bloody _phone!_ ” 

Niall is shaking now, his blue eyes nearly white. They’ve changed to a shade Liam’s only ever seen a few times in his life, and most of those involved Niall talking about the way his dad treated his mum. Never has it been directed at Liam. Never has Liam felt like he deserves it, but he’s so angry, so hurt that Niall’s even talking about this at all when it’s always been this _thing_ they have an unspoken rule _not_ to speak about that he can’t even concentrate on that.

“Picking up a phone? When’s the last time you did that? You’re all talk about being a part of my family and missing out, but what about your own?” Niall is shaking his head and Liam can see the words _“don’t_ ” and _“stop”_ forming on Niall’s lips, but it’s almost as if Liam’s watching himself from outside his own body. There’s no other way he’d say what he’s about to say to Niall. Ever.

“When’s the last time you called your mum? When’s the last time you went home and saw dear old dad, hmm? _Your_ family is still alive, yet you stand there and lecture me on what I do with mine?”

“You don’t have the _right_ to—” Niall starts, and Liam should stop. He can see what he’s said has got to Niall. He can see the strips he’s tearing away from his friend—his very best friend—but he can’t stop. It’s like everything he’d been holding inside that has nothing even to _do_ with Niall but with everything else in Liam’s life has now got an outlet. And he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“I don’t have the right? You can stand there and talk to me about _my_ family but I can’t mention yours? That’s fucking rich is what that is.” 

Niall looks down at the floor and his shoulders slump but there’s still a stiffness there, an unspoken hurt that Liam knows he’s caused. Niall shakes his head and picks up his keys and gets his coat from the back of the kitchen chair. He takes two steps away from them and Liam is still standing there, watching his cornflakes crumble and disappear into the milk and it’s sad how it’s a metaphor for what he wants to do himself. Disappear. Be nothing. Be no one.

“It’s _because_ you’re my family that I’m going to let this slide. It’s because I love you like the brother I always wanted that I’m willing to let this pass. But you need to talk about this, Liam. You need to find someone to talk to about her and what it’s doing to you because living this—half life—or whatever it is isn’t good for you. You’re turning into someone I’m not sure I want to know anymore. I’m not sure Ruth or Nicola or your mum and dad would, either.” 

He walks out then and leaves Liam in a room that feels somehow less than it was before. It’s like Niall’s taken all the feeling from the room—the hurt, the anger, the sadness—and left Liam with nothing. He sits down at the table and for the first time in a forever he feels like crying and he waits and waits and _waits_ for the tears to come. And none do. They haven’t in so long Liam thinks they might not ever be able to.

x X x

He’s sitting beside Nicola’s bed, resting his head where he’s holding her hand, when he hears someone else come in the room. He doesn’t move, doesn’t show a sign of interest. Can’t even if he wanted to he’s just so _drained_ after the fight with Niall that morning. Then the doctors came at him again about turning her machines off. Letting her go peacefully. Ending a life that wasn’t a life at all.

He didn’t give them answers. Didn’t argue for the first time in forever. Just sat there and listened and watched his sister’s chest rise and fall and how her hair wasn’t really shiny but her skin was; her skin was more like a mannequin’s than full of life anymore. They left hours ago and he’s just—he doesn’t know what to do anymore.

He feels someone pull up a chair beside him, hears the high-pitched squeak of metal on the plastic floor. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.

He knows what Harry smells like.

He doesn’t say anything and Harry doesn’t, either. He’s just—he really doesn’t have the energy to tell Harry to get out or to remind him of the orders the staff have here if he comes on this floor. He doesn’t want to open his mouth, really, because he’s afraid of what might come out.

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat because this is the first time anyone’s just sat beside him here. The first time anyone apart from himself and a barrage of specialists and nurses has come into Nicola’s room at all. Liam’s just so tired. So tired of being strong and doing the “right thing” that he doesn’t even know _what_ he should be doing anymore. He’s pushed _everyone_ away who matters in his life—and Niall. Niall was—Niall’s the one who means the most, and to think he talked to him like he did that morning. Said all those things and made out that he wasn’t family? Liam hates himself for it. 

And then there’s Harry.

Harry who’s here when he doesn’t need to be. Harry who’s here when Liam told him to leave and who he’s kept pushing away—keeping at arm’s length. Yet here he is.

So when Harry’s hand slides over Liam’s own where it’s laid on his thigh Liam doesn’t turn him away. Liam doesn’t think he could now even if he wanted to. 

Instead he flips his hand over and Harry joins their fingers together and squeezes lightly and Liam can’t stop the sob that wrenches itself from his chest. He can’t stop the tears that build and build and overflow down his cheeks and over Nicola’s hand and into the bed below. He cries and cries and it hurts because it feels like just touching Harry today has made something inside crack open. Maybe it was the fight with Niall or maybe it was the way Edith looked at him when she came in to change Nicola’s catheter or maybe it ‘s just having Harry show up again that’s done something, but he can’t stop. The tears roll down his cheeks and he just squeezes Harry’s hand tighter and tighter until he can feel the bones shift and grind under his hold, but Harry doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. He just lets Liam go until Liam’s not crying anymore. 

They sit there in silence still and Liam doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he _can_ say anything—just swallowing is hurting his throat. Turns out he doesn’t need to.

“I—” Harry starts, clears his throat and tries again. “I did know who you were. Not the first time you came in, but probably about the fourth or fifth.” He pauses and Liam doesn’t do anything. He just listens.

“I had the biggest crush on you when you were on X Factor—even more when you came out. I don’t know if you realised how cool you were with that gorgeous boyfriend and that voice of yours. I tried to sound like you when I was in my band; I failed, there’s no way I could reach your high notes.” He laughs and Liam doesn’t, although his lips do twitch a little.

“I did like you back then. And I was so sad, so sorry about your family when that happened. Mum let me bunk off school, she even came with me to the funeral. She bought this big bouquet of flowers—even looked up on Google what you had said your Mum’s favourites were for some interview. I’d never seen her cry before that day. Not like that, anyway,” Harry adds softly.

“And then you disappeared or whatever and I grew up, I guess. Figured out I liked boys a lot more than girls and went to college and then uni. Had to get a job to pay the rest of what my loans and parents can’t cover, and I wasn’t looking for anybody. Hadn’t been looking for anybody—until you came in. You with your cheap bottles of scotch and your cigarettes. You with your kind eyes hidden behind sadness and a walk that said you carried the weight of the world upon your shoulders. Do you know I used to count your smiles? I have a notebook at home—well, one of many, really, since you started coming in regular—and on the back page of every one there’s a tally. Sometimes I put notes down, too—like if i’d said something or what song was playing on the radio or if it was a particularly sunny kind of day. Random things, stupid things.” He laughs a little more and Liam smiles this time, his face hidden by where he’s still resting his head on Nicola’s hand.

“That’s the Liam I fell for. Not the magazine covers, not the interviews or the YouTube clips or the bloke who wrote a note to a sixteen-year-old kid on the back of a CD cover. I wanted to make you smile. Wanted to see what it was like to have that smile aimed at me, just for me. And then you did and I started thinking of it as my smile, and then when we kissed—well . . . .” He pauses and Liam squeezes his hand because he remembers that first kiss. Remembers how it made him feel and what it _meant_ to be wanted again.

“I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you earlier what I knew and I should have said all of this before. And I understand why you hate me—if you hate me. I’d kind of not like me, too.”

Liam can hear the remorse in Harry’s words. Can hear how much Harry wants him to say it’s okay. They’ll be all right. They can work it out. But he can’t. He can’t right now. Not right now.

Instead, Liam lifts his head and stares at his sister. His sister whose blue eyes he won’t ever see laughter in, whose lips won’t turn into a knowing grin when she catches Liam saying something about his life that he isn’t sure he wants to share yet. 

“Nic,” he says, his throat aching and voice scratchy with disuse, “Nic, I want you to meet someone. This,” he says, pausing to squeeze Harry’s hand once more, “this is Harry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, and for a moment—even though he’s holding onto Harry and Harry is _right there_ —it feels as if there’s a gap between them that maybe apologies can’t fill.

“Hello, um, hi,” Harry stutters, and Liam doesn’t need to look over to imagine the heat that will be colouring Harry’s cheeks.

He grins a little himself, then starts in on his day. He mentions his breakfast with Niall. How he’s going to have to apologise profusely and also apologises to her for not letting Niall come around. He makes Harry laugh when he remembers some story from when he and Niall were about ten and Niall hid under Nicola’s bed just to get a glimpse of her boobs after she’d had a shower and he’d sneezed _right_ when she was taking her towel off and Nicola chased him around the house with nothing but her hairbrush until Liam’s dad broke it up and Liam’s mum nearly passed out on the floor from laughter. He tells more and more stories and Harry laughs and holds his hand the entire time.

Then he gets to the bit about this boy he misjudged. This boy who he let into his life and then pushed away like he’d pushed away everyone else. And he was done doing that. He liked this boy a lot—a lot more than he should—and he’s hoping that this boy still likes him enough to give it a go. Harry doesn’t let go of his hand then, either. Just holds on, and Liam closes his eyes for a moment. When he says goodbye to Nicola later when visiting hours are over, Harry doesn’t let go as they walk out of her room into the hall.

Harry holds his hand down to the bus station. He holds his hand all the way up the stairs to the flat Liam shares with Niall, and when they step inside and sit on the sofa he still doesn’t let go.

x X x

The day he turns Nicola’s machines off he’s not alone. There’s a room full of people surrounding Nicola’s bed. Niall and Louis, Zayn, and even Paul has made it from wherever he was with some new band he’s been looking after nowadays. And Harry. Harry is there, too. They take it in shifts sitting beside Liam. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s loud with laughter as he and Niall fight over different parts of childhood stories to tell. Sometimes Liam will sing and Louis’ voice will come in with harmonies. Sometimes Zayn sits with Liam and Liam will rest his head on Zayn’s shoulder. 

The day she finally stops breathing—her body giving in once and for all—they are all there. They all stop and it’s as if the whole world has stopped and waited. Waited for one last breath. One last something that said Nicola was here, but now she’s gone. 

Nothing happens. Nothing huge and significant. Slowly sound filters back in—Harry breathing beside him. A few pigeons out on the window sill. The click of heels on the floor in the hall. The whirr of the air conditioning overhead. Normalcy fills the spaces and Liam breathes and smiles, brushes his lips to Nicola’s forehead and whispers his goodbye.

He turns then because Harry is tugging on his hand and Harry is wrapping his arms around Liam. Then he can feel Zayn at his back, Louis on one side and Niall on the other, then Paul—all gruff and _”Come ‘ere, you lot.”_

Liam may have just said goodbye to his sister, but with the people who love him most here, his _family_ around him, he knows he’ll never be alone.


End file.
